UPON THE STORM Read online

  "You'd look pretty silly running around out there in a towel," she'd told him, hiding the fact that the last thing he looked in that damned towel was silly. Breathtaking, tempting and incredibly sexy, yes, but never silly.

  He'd been so worried that it irritated him a little when she came back looking flushed and exhilarated. She tugged off the wet gear and ran a hand through her tousled, damp hair.

  "I got it!" she exclaimed. "The greatest shot! It was a killer wave, a rogue, like the one…" She trailed off, eyeing him as she realized what she'd been about to say.

  "I get the idea," he said, unable to stay angry in the face of her enthusiasm.

  They turned on the weather radio while they ate, and the news was double-edged. Charlotte had stalled just off the coast. While it meant she was only close enough to pelt them with rain and buffet them with her fierce winds and driven seas, it also meant she was gathering strength and would be all the more ferocious if she at last struck.

  Christy got up and turned off the radio, cocking her head to listen to the wind. "I wouldn't want to be stuck in that when she really starts to blow."

  "We are stuck," Trace said wryly.

  "I mean like the Coast Guard and the guys who have to evacuate people. They must have told me a dozen times that I was on my own, that they wouldn't be able to get to me if it got real bad…" She turned to look at him. "Will they be looking for you?"

  He winced. "Don't remind me. That's one of the things I never thought of when I pulled this brilliant stunt."

  "So someone knew you were going out."

  "One of the guys at the marina. I suppose he must have told somebody. He tried to talk me out of it … and I bit his head off," he ended with a sigh.

  Typical, he thought. It had never occurred to him to think about those who might have to bail him out of his self-inflicted predicament. That there might be people risking their lives to look for him even now, people whose job it was, was bad enough; that it had been Christy who had risked hers was nearly unbearable.

  "I wish we could let them know," Christy murmured.

  Trace let out a long breath. "Me too. But I guess I'll just have to hope they're too busy to spend much time looking for one stray idiot."

  Christy studied him for a moment. "You're being pretty hard on yourself, aren't you?"

  "Maybe it's about time," he said grimly. He meant it; he wasn't at all happy with what he saw when he looked at what he'd become. Somewhere along the line he'd lost that eager kid with something to prove and become a cold, uncaring indifferent…

  He felt a chill as the words formed in his mind. The same words he had always used to describe his mother. God, he'd become just like her. He looked up to see a pair of wide eyes soft with understanding.

  "It's hard, isn't it? Looking at yourself and not liking what you see?"

  "You don't miss much, do you?" he said uncomfortably.

  "I've been there," she said softly.

  His eyes widened. "You? Why?"

  Christy's eyes dropped; unlike many people, she wasn't her own favorite topic of conversation. Especially this particular subject.

  "Christy?"

  She looked up. She knew that look in his eyes; she'd seen it in her own mirror many times. He was wrestling with something she'd fought early in her life, earlier than most, she supposed. That feeling, that doubting of your own self-worth, was not something she would wish on anyone.

  "I … spent a lot of time wondering what was wrong with me. Why everyone I thought … cared about me left."

  "Left?" She let out a shuddering sigh, and what he saw then in her eyes made him speak hastily. "Don't, Christy. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you talk about … something that still hurts."

  "It does," she said, shaking her head. "It's crazy, but it still does." She laughed, but it was humorless. "I thought I'd left it behind, and then it sneaks up on me like this."

  "I'm sorry," he said remorsefully. "I shouldn't have—"

  "C'mon," she said, her laugh steadier now, "you're blaming yourself for enough right now. Don't take this on, too."

  He looked at her in wonder. Whatever it was, it was clearly painful, and it was just as clear that she was not going to let it control her. After a mother who whined at a change in the weather, and a long trail of glittering women who wailed at a broken fingernail, he felt as if he had found something pure and clean and good for the first time in his life. "You really are something, Christy."

  She gave a harsh little sigh. "You know where that came from? My name?" He looked puzzled. "It's where they found me. On a doorstep. Christy Way

  , in Reno, Nevada. Wrapped up in a blanket. The house belonged to a doctor. I went back when I was sixteen. I thought he might have known her. My mother, I mean. I wanted to ask her why she didn't … want me."

  "Oh, God," Trace whispered, his voice harsh, his throat so tight he could barely get the words out. He wanted to reach for her, to hold her, but he was afraid she would pull away. He knew from the short, choppy little bursts of words that she had not told this story often.

  "I was adopted when I was still a baby. I remember them, a little. But she died when I was five. He didn't … want me anymore, afterward. He sent me back." She made a small jerky movement that could have been a shrug. "I bounced around a lot after that. Foster homes. I was lucky. None of them were too bad."

  Lucky? Trace's mind was reeling. Lucky because the foster homes she'd lived in weren't "too bad"? He was filled with a sudden shame that he had ever dwelt on his own misfortunes; his childhood took on an entirely different look when compared to the bleakness of hers. Family has never been a problem for me, she'd said. "God, Christy, I'm sorry."

  It was a shrug this time. "Ancient history. It doesn't usually bother me. I worked it all out a long time ago."

  "Worked it out?"

  "That it wasn't really my fault. That it wasn't … something about me that made them leave." She looked up then, studying him seriously. "For a long time, I felt like you do now. But you can change it. It's never too late."

  Trace didn't know if he could speak. The horror she had sketched out with those flat, emotionless words had moved him beyond the ability to respond. He swallowed heavily. "I—it's different. None of what happened to you was your fault. Not like—"

  "Was it?" she cut in quickly. "Was it really your fault? Didn't it all stem from the way your mother treated you?"

  That's no excuse, he thought in a sudden flash of self-loathing. My God, he was just like her, whining, blaming…

  "It doesn't matter anyway," Christy was saying. "Why, I mean. As long as you know. As long as you change it."

  "I'm … not sure I can…"

  "You've already started," she said, going on when he looked at her in surprise. "You are not," she said firmly, "the same man who left that dock three days ago."

  He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. She was right. He'd known it, felt it, from the moment he'd awakened to see her looking at him, to feel her cool, slender fingers on his forehead.

  "You just have to keep going," she said softly.

  "Yeah," he said, his voice low and tight. He was so full of emotions he hadn't felt, hadn't allowed himself to feel, for years that he felt as if his chest was about to burst. He closed his eyes, letting his head loll back on his shoulders.

  Christy studied him for a moment, reading the turmoil in his face. She wished she could help, could find some magic words to ease his way, but she knew all too well that what he was going through was a solitary battle.

  She couldn't seem to stop her eyes from moving, and they swept over him, down the long, leanly muscled, powerful legs, across the sleekly bare chest with its flat, male nipples, then once more to the intriguing path of golden-brown hair that led her gaze irresistibly down to the length of white fabric. She could see the edge of the towel, below the knot on his far hip, where the cloth fell open along his muscular thigh, and she could picture the flesh bared by the gap. In her mind's eye she coul
d see perfectly what the thick, white cloth hid, how the golden hair kept going until it widened into a thicket of curls…

  She bit her lip, ordering her rebellious imagination to knock it off. He was a celebrity, she reminded herself somewhat fiercely. He probably had a legion of faithful fans of the female persuasion, she said to herself scathingly.

  Funny, she had almost forgotten that. She found it hard to think of him that way, especially since he had dropped the arrogant, self-centered facade. But there was no reason to be having such … racy thoughts about him, she told herself.

  It was just the situation, she thought. Stranded here, in such close quarters, she wouldn't be human if she didn't have this kind of reaction to a man like him. At least she supposed so; she'd never had this kind of reaction to a man before. The height of naïveté, that's you, Christy my girl, she said to herself ruefully.

  A gust of wind howled outside, and they both glanced a little warily at the door. "I should have brought a tape player or something," Christy said uneasily. "All I brought are books, and they aren't much good at drowning out noise."

  "Easy on the word 'drown,' okay?" Trace said with a wry grimace. Christy looked startled, then grinned back, glad he could joke about it. "Maybe you should read aloud," he suggested when another gust whistled eerily.

  She wrinkled her nose at him. "Maybe you should. You're the actor, after all."

  "I'd rather listen to you," he said seriously. "You've got a great voice."

  "What?" she asked, startled.

  "A great voice." He lowered his eyes, picking idly at the edge of the towel. "It was the only reason I … didn't give up in the water. I was afraid if I didn't do what you said … I wouldn't get to hear it anymore. That you'd get mad and go away."

  His eyes closed again, and she saw gooseflesh rise on his arms. God, he had come so close! "But you never quit," she said softly.

  "I did. But then you were there."

  "You held on long enough." She grimaced at the memory. "I heard you go by the first time, even over the wind. I couldn't figure out why you were—" She broke off when he gave a harsh little chuckle, but went on when he didn't open his eyes or speak. "I was just coming back from the other side when I saw you again. I didn't hear the engine, so I don't know why I even looked. But I saw that wave…"

  "I never did."

  "It was terrible. It just picked up the boat and crushed it. If you hadn't been thrown clear…"

  "I would have gone down with it," he said grimly, plucking at the towel again. "Almost did anyway. It was a piece of it that clipped me on the head."

  "I'm sorry. It looked like a nice boat."

  "I'm not. Not really. I only bought it when Tony wouldn't let me help him." He sighed ruefully. "I guess I thought if I couldn't impress him with how big I'd made it, I could impress everyone else." The harsh chuckle again. "At least it's insured. I can use the money for Tony now, if he'll take it like you said."

  Just the change evident in those few words gave Christy hope. He just might make it, she thought, if it doesn't all go down the drain when he goes back. That he actually lived amid the glitter and lights she'd only read about seemed impossible to—

  She sucked in a breath as he lifted his head to look at her intently with those incredible eyes, looking now as green as spring grass and reflecting the golden light of the lantern. A sudden vision of what he must look like on screen struck her, and it didn't seem at all impossible anymore.

  He looked as if he were about to speak when the wind picked up speed, and they glanced simultaneously at the door again.

  "Maybe reading aloud isn't such a bad idea," she joked.

  "Where are your books? I'll get one."

  "I'll do it," she said hastily; she'd had about all she could take of him running around in that damned towel. She scrambled off the bed, grabbed her backpack and pulled out the first book that came to hand. She didn't glance at it until she sat back down; when she saw it was a volume of poetry, she looked at him doubtfully.

  "Just pick one," he said quietly, seeing the title and her look.

  Coloring a little, she opened it, then looked at him again. "Wouldn't you rather—"

  "—listen to you. Please."

  With a sigh, she looked down at the page the book had naturally fallen open to: Blake's "The Tyger." It was one of her favorites, but she felt suddenly very shy. As if sensing her hesitation, Trace turned slightly away from her, closing his eyes and lounging back in the chair. With surprise she realized that made it easier, and she marveled at the sensitivity of this man she had first thought so arrogant.

  By the second verse she was into the rhythm of the words that she loved, her shyness vanished. Blake's words, his perfect description of that fierce, feral beast, seemed to so fit the storm that raged around them that as she read, the darkness outside seemed indeed his "forests of the night."

  The last words seemed to echo for a moment before Trace, his voice slightly husky, said simply, "Thank you."

  She blushed, absurdly pleased by his quiet words. She flipped through the pages, reading whatever caught her eye; he listened without speaking, a slight smile curving his mouth.

  Then they sat in silence for a while, listening to the wind that seemed somehow more distant now, farther removed from the warm, lantern-lit cocoon they were in.

  Trace reflexively lifted a hand to probe at his temple.

  "Still hurt?"

  "A little. But it's a lot better."

  "Maybe you should take some aspirin and get some sleep."

  And there it was, he thought. He sat up. "Christy? Where have you been sleeping?"

  "You're sitting in it," she said lightly. "I thought about the counter, but I figured I'd probably fall off."

  "You've been sleeping in this chair?" He shifted again.

  "It's not too bad, turned sideways. It works."

  "Not anymore," he said firmly, nodding toward the bunk. "You're staying right there."

  Her chin came up at his tone. "Oh?"

  "I'll use the chair."

  Christy pointedly let her eyes scan his six-foot length. "Don't be silly."

  "Look—"

  "It doesn't make sense, Trace. You're too tall for that little chair."

  "Damn it!" he burst out. "It's bad enough you had to save me from my own stupidity without—"

  "I'm trying to save you from your own stubbornness."

  "I'm using the damned chair!"

  Christy opened her mouth, a retort on her lips, but shut it again with the words unspoken. He was really bothered by this, she thought. Was this truly a new Trace Dalton, or just the real one, hidden for so long beneath the arrogant facade?

  He lowered his eyes and let out a long sigh. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."

  "All right," she said slowly, eyeing him carefully. "Is this where I'm supposed to give the 'We're adults, not teenagers, we should be able to handle sharing a bunk' speech?"

  His head shot up. "I—" he dropped his gaze again. "I didn't mean that."

  "I know. But it does seem to be the logical solution."

  Logical. Right. The thought of sharing that too-narrow bunk with her, of having her so close yet so untouchable, was torture; he knew the reality would be hell.

  "I'm not sure I'm that adult," he muttered, so low that Christy couldn't be sure of what she'd heard.

  "What?"

  "Nothing."

  Christy gave an exasperated sigh. "What's wrong? Are you afraid I'm after your famous body?"

  I'm afraid you're not. For a horrified second he thought he'd spoken the words out loud. But she was just waiting, looking at him levelly, so he knew he hadn't. "I … no."

  "Fine, then." She scooted toward the edge of the bed as if all were decided. Trace rolled his eyes heavenward.

  "Did you ever stop to think I might be after yours?"

  She stared at him in astonishment. "Why? I mean, you must have lots of beautiful women after you. Why on earth would you want me?" As if the t
ruth of her rhetorical question was self-evident, she slid off the bunk and disappeared into the bathroom alcove.

  Trace gaped at the still-swinging curtains. She didn't know. She honestly didn't know. As impossible as it seemed, she didn't know how beautiful she was, how those misty gray eyes pierced his very soul, didn't know the effect of those luscious curves and long legs, didn't realize the shivers that low, husky voice sent down a man's spine…

  The curtains slid back, and his breath caught in his throat. She was wearing a demure nightshirt that covered her from her collarbone to just above her knees, from shoulder to wrist. There was no reason for his heart to start that hammering beat. Except that the nightshirt was made out of a gray satin cloth that turned her eyes to molten silver and, without revealing anything, managed to sinuously suggest every curve and hollow of her slender body. It shifted in rippling waves with every step, enticing him with the change of shimmering light and shadow.

  "Damn." He ordered his surging body to calm down.

  She walked past him without a word, going to the lantern that was making a hissing sound that indicated it was nearly out of fuel for the day. She didn't speak, merely paused with her hand on the knob that would douse the wick, looking at him. He knew what she meant; it was decision time.

  "Damn," he repeated, and hurled himself up out of the chair and strode angrily across the room. He jerked the curtains of the alcove shut with an abrupt motion, then yanked the towel off and flung it over the rack. It wasn't doing much to disguise his aroused state anyway.

  He seriously considered cranking about a gallon of cold water over his too-active body, but another thought made him turn to look at the rack that held his clothes. She had told him that she'd rinsed the salt water from everything as best she could, although she wasn't sure of how successful she'd been with the jacket. He lifted the now stiff leather garment and reached for the dark blue briefs he'd been wearing that day.

  Good, he thought grimly, they were still damp and most definitely cold. He yanked them on, shuddering a little as the chilly cloth enclosed his heated flesh.

  "Damn," he said a third time. But at the rate you're going, he told himself caustically, they'll be dry from sheer body heat in about thirty seconds. You'd better move fast.