Chain of Love (2 page)

Cathy trailed behind, wondering if she could come up with some last-minute excuse. The bright sun, blue sky, and the trim, shining white yacht were all
conspiring to bring back the headache that had been her constant companion during the long, sweltering summer months. Desperately she wanted to race back
to Georgetown, to her silent apartment with the drawn curtains and the air conditioner, shut away from the fresh sea air and the smiling faces and laughing
voices all around her.

She hesitated at the top of the gangplank. “Look, why don’t I just catch a bus back to town? I’m not really in the mood for this.”

Meg sent her husband a long-suffering look. “You see what I mean? She seems to have developed an allergy to sunshine and fresh air. If you come up
with one more complaint, Cathy...”

“All right, all right,” she acquiesced, giving Charles a kiss on his proffered cheek. “This is a lovely boat, though why you’d need
anything quite so large is beyond me.”

“It sleeps four. We’re planning on using ours to sail down to the Caribbean in the winter like Sin does. Think of the money we’ll save in
hotel bills!” Meg announced brightly.

“That sounds like your usual idea of wise financial planning,” Cathy scoffed. She cast a searching glance about the shiny decks. “Where
is our host? Did I scare him away?”

“Sin’s gone to pick up some supplies.” Charles shrugged.

“And his lady friend?” Cathy inquired in silky tones. Meg was off to one side, making frantic gestures that Charles failed entirely to notice.

“Oh, there’s no one else coming. I think Sin’s between ladies for the moment. Though he seldom stays that way for long. I’ve never
known anyone with such phenomenal luck with women.” Meg’s grimaces and signals finally penetrated his abstraction, as did Cathy’s
motionless stance, her generous mouth compressed in a thin line beneath the large, enveloping sunglasses.

“Oh, you don’t need to worry,” he added hastily. “I don’t think you’re Sin’s type. He likes them a little more
worldly, and a little more rounded, for that matter. You’ve lost weight this summer,” he added bluntly.

“Tactful as ever,” Cathy murmured, relaxing her tensed shoulders for the first time that day. It was good to be around Charles and Meg and
their tactless concern. She hadn’t allowed anyone that close in months.

“No, really, you don’t need to worry about Sin. He’s absolutely harmless. I’m sure he’ll take no more notice of you than if
you were a piece of driftwood.”

“That bad, am I?” Cathy laughed, the sound rusty from long disuse.

Charles’s fair skin flushed. “You know what I mean, Cath. It’s just that Sin is... well, you know, he’s...”

“Yes, Charles. What exactly am I?” An amused voice came from directly behind her, though well above her head. With a curious sense of fate,
Cathy turned to meet Sinclair MacDonald.

She had been prepared for height, but not quite the overwhelming size of the man directly behind her. She squinted up at him, way up into the face above
her, the mobile mouth, laughing hazel eyes, and she took a hasty step backward, away from all that vibrant masculinity. In her rush of nervousness she
tripped, her ankle turning beneath her, and before anyone could move a large, well-shaped hand reached out and caught her elbow, righting her again with
just the proper amount of strength and gentleness, and then released her.

“Thank you,” she said shakily, the imprint of his hand still burning on the soft, tender skin of her upper arm. Keeping better control of her
feet, she backed away, well out of range of that almost overwhelming masculine intensity.

“Sinclair MacDonald, this is my sister-in-law, Cathy Whiteheart. Cath, this is Sin. You’ve heard me mention him,” Charles added with a
winning smile that had a nervous edge to it.

“Not that I remember,” Cathy said with a stubborn, unencouraging glare at her demure sister. All that potent attraction was having a perverse
effect—she was determined to keep this astonishingly attractive man at a distance. There was a look of a sleek, jungle beast about him, for all his
affable smile.
Like a panther,
she thought fancifully, edging farther away.

Her host smiled lazily down at her. “Well, you haven’t missed anything,” he dismissed her rudeness lightly. “Why don’t you
ladies go below and see if you can rustle up some lunch while Charles and I get under way? It’s past noon and I, for one, am starving.”

Cathy met the charming grin with stony rage. “Why don’t you
gentlemen
fix lunch? Or is that too much like women’s work?”

Instead of the anger she expected and hoped for, the amused smile deepened, revealing a disconcerting dimple in one lean, weathered cheek. “A
liberated woman?” he inquired smoothly. “I beg your pardon. Why don’t Charles and I make lunch, then, while the two of you cast off and
get us out of the harbor? You can call us when we’ve hit open sea.” He started toward the cabin.

Cathy’s sense of humor, long dormant, surfaced for a brief moment before being engulfed in irritation. “I don’t know anything about
sailing,” she admitted, as her eyes unwillingly took in the length of him.

God, he had a beautiful back! He was wearing a teal blue Ralph Lauren polo shirt stretched across broad, well-muscled shoulders, and the faded jeans that
hugged his impossibly long legs looked molded to him. He stopped, turned casually and shrugged. “Well, since I know absolutely nothing about cooking,
why don’t I take care of the boat and you take care of the food? You can pick your own assistant—I’m sure Charles will be happy to help
you if you want to keep everything sexually integrated.”

All this was said in such an innocent drawl that Cathy was hard put to control an overwhelming desire to shove his large frame overboard. She wasn’t
used to verbal sparring, especially with one whose looks were quite distracting, and she suddenly felt the almost desperate need to get away from the hot,
bright sun, the blue sky, and the tall, disturbingly handsome man who had already overwhelmed her. She had had enough of being bested by handsome men to
last her a lifetime, she thought with a sudden upsurge of self-pity that brought stinging tears to her eyes behind the sunglasses.

Swiftly she headed toward the cabin. “C’mon, Meg,” she ordered in a muffled voice.

There was still one problem left to negotiate. Sin MacDonald had stopped in the middle of the narrow passageway to the cabin, his large frame filling the
small aisle, and he didn’t look as if he was about to move. Cathy moved in on him, determined not to be the first to give way, and he held his
ground, the hazel eyes surveying her with lazy amusement as he lounged against the bulk-head. She was forced to stop in front of him, feeling dwarfed,
helpless, and frustrated.

The look in her tear-filled eyes was pure hatred. She allowed herself to glare at him, mistakenly thinking the oversized glasses hid her expression. But
the anger in the set of her mouth and a stray tear slipping down from beneath the glasses told more than she suspected. “Would you please
move?” she requested icily. “Unless you prefer to do without lunch?’1

He continued to stare down at her, his expression changing only slightly before he reluctantly straightened, allowing her a narrow passage in front of him.
“You mustn’t mind me, Cathy. Charles should have told you I can’t resist teasing young ladies. Forgive me?”

Kindness was the last thing she wanted from him just then. It stripped her of her defenses, and Sinclair MacDonald already made her far too vulnerable.
“How entertaining for you, Mr. Mac-Donald,” she said, avoiding the last part of his speech. He was still much too close. Holding her breath,
she edged past him, her arm inadvertently brushing against his lean, taut body. She pulled back as if burnt, and practically ran the remaining distance to
the cabin, dashing down the steps and collapsing on a cushion, her heart pounding. They would all be laughing at her up there, she told herself, wrapping
her long arms around her knees and rocking back and forth. Nothing but silence came from the deck for several moments, and slowly Cathy’s deep,
shuddering breaths slowed to normal.

“Are you all right, Cathy?” Meg’s voice was soft with concern and guilt as she followed her sister below. “I didn’t mean to
make matters worse. I thought—”

Cathy took a few deep breaths, whipping off her sunglasses in the darkness of the cabin. “You didn’t think,” she said bluntly. “You
call
that
”—
her tone was filled with deep loathing—
”
that,
fairly good-looking? I suppose
you’d describe Robert Redford as just all right.”

“Well, I guess I understated it a bit. I just thought you should realize that a handsome man can be nice too,” she replied defensively,
dropping down on a cushion beside her sister.

“Sinclair MacDonald hasn’t yet convinced me. Macho pig,” she added bitterly.

“Well, I can’t argue with macho, but I really wouldn’t call him a pig.”

“I would,” Cathy shot back, rising from the cushion and wandering toward the porthole. Sin MacDonald was directly in sight, and for the first
time Cathy allowed herself a long, leisurely look, trying to inure herself to his undeniable attractions.

He must have been at least six foot three or four, with broad shoulders, a trim waist and hips, and those long, beautiful legs encased in faded denim. He
wore ancient topsiders and no socks, and the V-neck of his polo shirt revealed a triangle of curling golden brown hair. Cathy had always detested hairy
men; Greg had been smooth and hair-less. But somehow the sight of those brown curls was having an inexplicable effect on Cathy—one she told herself
was disgust. She found herself wondering how far down his stomach the curls went. She hoped he didn’t have hairy shoulders.

And she hadn’t even taken his face into account yet. The square chin, and the wide, sensual mouth gave him a faintly piratical air. Add to that lean,
weathered cheeks with that seductive single dimple when his mouth curved in a smile, a straight, decisive nose, laugh lines radiating out around those
smoky, unfathomable, uncomfortably
kind
hazel eyes, and the combination was as potent a blend of masculinity as Cathy had ever been subjected to.
The slightly long, curling brown hair had a splash of gray in it, and as Sin pulled his sunglasses from the top of his head and placed them on the bridge
of his nose, Cathy bit her lip, turning back to her sister’s knowing gaze.

“Macho pig,” she repeated defiantly. “But a handsome one, for all that.”

“I thought you’d see it that way,” Meg said with a satisfied smirk. “Do you want to see what Sin brought for us to work with? I
brought a salad and French bread—he said he’d take care of the rest.”

Cathy busied herself rummaging through the picnic basket on the pocket-sized table, pulling out a surprising assortment of things. “Does he have a
cook?” she inquired silkily, unwilling yet to refer to Sin by name. Given the contents of the picnic basket, Sin’s disclaimer of kitchen
abilities seemed a blatant lie.

“Not that I know of,” Meg replied. “He prefers complete independence and self-sufficiency, or so Charles tells me. Why?”

“There’s a beautiful quiche here, a crock of paté, an icy Soave, Russian black bread.”

“Sin would be sure to know the best delicatessens,” Meg responded before Cathy’s accusing look. “God, what a feast! It will be all
I can do not to make a perfect pig of myself. Aren’t you famished?”

Cathy forced herself to turn casually away. “Not really,” she replied from force of habit, surprised to find she was lying. For the first time
in three months she was actually looking forward to a meal. It must be the sea air.

“Oh, dear, you aren’t seasick yet, are you? We’re scarcely out of the harbor.” Meg eyed her with concern.

“No, I’m fine.”

“You should go out on deck and get some sun. I’m sure you won’t be in their way.”

“I’d rather stay here.”

“You can’t hide in the cabin all day, Cathy!” Meg cried in exasperation.

“I can do anything I damn please,” she shot back. “I feel trapped, maneuvered,
set up,
and I don’t like it.”

“So you’re going to sulk and ruin the entire day?”

There was a long silence. Cathy turned to her angry sister, suddenly contrite. “I’m sorry I’m such a wet blanket, Meggie,” she
murmured. “I’ll make an effort, I promise. Just give me a few minutes, okay? We don’t want to eat for a while yet, anyway, do we?”

Meg’s piquant face softened. “No, sweetie. We can wait as long as you want. I’ll go topside and give you a few minutes to pull yourself
together. Unless you’d rather talk?” She offered it tentatively, knowing from experience not to push her sister toward confidences before she
was ready.

“Not now, Meg. And definitely not here. Tell Charles and Macho-Man I’ll be out shortly, okay?” Wearily she pushed her silky blond hair
away from her pale face.

A moment later she was blessedly alone in the tiny cabin. It was very quiet—the creak of the wood, the
snap-snap
of the sails overhead, the
small, subtle sounds of wind and water against the sleek lines of the boat. And the sound of voices, soft, easy camaraderie with shared laughter floating
down to her.
I should be out there,
she thought disconsolately,
not sitting alone in this tiny cabin the way I’ve been sitting alone in my apartment for the last three months. Surely Greg wasn
’t worth such prolonged mourning?

Reluctantly she looked down at her clothing. Pale beige linen pants, a thin cotton knit shirt in a subdued gray, and running shoes made up her outfit. It
would be too cold out there, she decided, wandering around the small room, peering with never ceasing fascination at the complete compactness of the living
quarters. From the pocket-sized galley, miniature bathroom or head, and comfortable, blue-duck covered bunks, it was efficient and welcoming. Stepping past
the head, she peered through the door into the forward cabin, then hastily backed away. The master cabin consisted of a large mattress, covered by a duvet,
and nothing else. The perfect spot for a sybaritic weekend, she thought with an odd combination of nervousness and contempt, and took another step
backward, her slender back coming up against something tall, solid, and unyielding. She didn’t have to turn around to know with a sinking feeling
that Sinclair MacDonald had caught her peering into his bedroom.