Iris Johansen - Always

"Who would refuse a jaunt around the island on a yacht like this?" she asked lightly. "Particularly anyone as sun-deprived as I am. Besides, being a poor benighted prisoner, I didn't have much choice. You could have just thrown me over your shoulder and carried me on board willy-nilly." "I wouldn't have done that." Was there a thread of hurt in his voice? It seemed impossible that she had the power to hurt a man as granite hard as Donahue. Yet he was one of the most boldly honest men she had ever met and so secure in his own manhood that he was unafraid to reveal vulnerability. She had found that out yesterday, to her intense disturbance.

Today he had been very careful to guard against making her uneasy in any way. He had been friendly, charming, and almost impersonal. The hours they'd spent on the yacht had been as goldenas the sun pouring down on her right now. She had a sudden impulse to soothe the hurt she had so carelessly inflicted. "I was joking. I know you wouldn't have forced me."

"Good." There was another long, peaceful silence. "May I ask you a question?"

She stiffened warily. "Perhaps."

"Why did you marry him?"

"I'm sure you've seen pictures of Martin. He's a very handsome man… quite beautiful, in fact."

"Why, dammit? You're not a woman who looks only on the surface."

"I was at that time in my life. I'm afraid I was regrettably naive for a woman of twenty-six. I was an only child and my parents had sheltered me far too much from the realities of life. I grew up thinking I could drift along in that same serene way for the rest of my days, and that everything would be handed to me on the traditional silver platter. Even my singing career was more of a pastime than a vocation."

"Baldwin," Clancy prodded.

"I told you I had the princess mentality. I was twenty-six years old and Prince Charming hadn't bothered to gallop into my life. So I started looking for him." Her lips curved in a bittersweet smile. "Martin appeared to fit the bill admirably. Nordic good looks, charisma, well educated, and he wanted to keep the princess in her ivory tower. It was obviously a marriage made in heaven." "You didn't know about his illegal activities?" "A princess can't be bothered to look out the window of her tower except on very special occasions. Didn't you know that? I thought he was in the import-export business."

"He was, in a manner of speaking," Clancy said dryly.

"I didn't find out Martin was a criminal until just after we separated. I had been trying to hold our marriage together for the previous two years, but had finally given it up as a lost cause. My parents had been killed in a plane crash, and I suddenly discovered that there were such things as pain and responsibility in the world. Even a princess has to grow up sometime. I wanted to become a person as well as a wife and mother. Martin didn't understand that and tried to bolt the doors of the tower firmly in place. He refused to accept the fact that I'd finally outgrown my cloistered life-style. He still does, for that matter. He's talked himself into believing that if I come back to him, everything will be the way it was." Her voice lowered to a mere whisper. "Nothing can be the same again. Not ever. Not without-" She broke off and drew a deep, shaky breath. Her eyes opened, but she kept them fixed firmly on the horizon so that he couldn't see their glittering brightness. "You can see why I object to you imprisoning me, Clancy. I've just managed to break out of one jail."

"I wouldn't be like Baldwin. I might want to keep you as my own personal harem girl, but I'm intelligent enough not to try to do it." He paused, then added wistfully, "1 hope."

She hadn't mentioned the child. Clancy studied her face, noting the fine-drawn tension of her lips and the air of bleak desolation that surrounded her. He wanted to take her in his arms and holdher, comfort her, but her control was so fragile he was afraid it would shatter. And he couldn't risk that: if she exposed her vulnerability now, she might resent him for it later. His hands clenched on the arms of the deck chair, and he forced them to relax one finger at a time. "I think it's time I told the captain to turn around and go back to the dock. The tip of your nose is definitely pink. You'd better come with me to the bridge. You need to get under cover as soon as possible."

She sighed regretfully as she picked up the shirt draped protectively over her legs and handed it to him. "You're probably right, but I hate to move. Oh, how I love to bask."

"And I love to watch you bask," he drawled. "It could become my favorite outdoor sport. As for indoor sports…" He suddenly frowned. "Your legs are pink, too. The shirt didn't do much to protect you."

"The damage was probably done by the time you so gallantly threw it over me."

His eyes were still fixed moodily on her legs. "You don't take care of yourself. You're too thin."

"Chicken legs," she agreed lightly.

"No."

There was a note of thickness in the negative that caused her gaze to fly to his face. His eyes were now hotly intent and his lips held a hint of sensuality. Her heart leapt to her throat and she felt a flash of heat run through her that had nothing to do with the sun.

"No, they're lovely." One big hand reached out and slowly touched her upper leg. She felt a jolt of electricity that made her a little dizzy. "Beautifullysymmetrical and well muscled." His index finger moved caressingly to her inner thigh. "Silky. Good Lord, you're so soft and silky."

She should move away from him. She should brush his hand aside with a light remark. Why couldn't she move? Why did she just sit here with that hot, languid heat unfolding within her and the tension building in the center of her womanhood? She felt as if she were mesmerized as she watched his slowly moving finger trace lazy patterns on her flesh.

"Part your legs a little, acushla."

She obeyed without thinking. She didn't seem to be able to think, only to feel. His hands were so big and strong, darkly tanned against her fairness. There was nothing graceful or artistic about the finger that was sending shafts of sensation through her. His hand was as blunt and strong as the rest of the man. The hand of a doer, not a dreamer.

"I like this," he said as he stroked the ultra sensitive skin with gossamer gentleness. She gasped as his finger slid beneath the edge of her shorts to the apex of her thighs. His finger halted as he heard the tiny sound, and his eyes lifted to meet hers. "I'm rushing you, aren't I?"

He drew a deep, shuddering breath and withdrew his hand, the tips of his fingers lingering reluctantly before he forced them to leave her flesh. "Sorry. I meant to be a perfect gentleman today. I should have known I wouldn't be able to pull it off. I want you too much." There was a flicker of frustration in his eyes as he glanced at her legs, still spread in voluptuous abandon. "But you don'thave to be so damn willing, either. How do you expect me to keep my hands off you when you do whatever I ask?"

Her eyes widened in shock and she closed her legs hurriedly.

"Oh, damn, I did it again," he said with supreme self-disgust, and stood up. "For heaven's sake, don't look so stricken. It wasn't your fault. It was mine. I'm one big ache and I'm striking out like the bastard I am. Come on. Let's get you out of the sun." He reached down and pulled her to her feet.

Lisa cast him a bewildered glance as she fell into step beside him. She had been moved from pain to sensuality to guilt in the space of minutes. Now, incredibly, she was feeling sympathy for the man who had inspired all of those emotions. "It was my fault, too," she said huskily. "I guess I was caught off guard. I don't usually behave so-" She broke off. She mustn't tell him that she had never had such an explosive physical response to any other man. She couldn't afford to encourage him in any way. "Let's forget it, shall we? Blame it on this gorgeous tropical sun."