Degrees of Wrong (23 page)

I tried to stomp my foot, but he pressed me into the counter. Despite the humility of having a large knife taken away from me like a toy from a child, I was not uncomfortable in this position. I relaxed, showing him I wouldn’t struggle.

“Do you think it would be safe to allow the admiral and Dr. Folsom to come down and have dinner now, love? Or shall I occupy your attention further?” he whispered in my ear. Again, his lips brushed at my throat and moved to just behind my ear.

“They can come down now,” I told him, whispering also. “Captain Marek,” I added symbolically, to let him know we were still fighting.

He whirled me around in his arms, and I knew he was going to kiss me. He leaned in and pulled me closer, and I braced myself for the damage it would do to me later. Because I wasn’t going to stop him.

“Is everybody okay? Oh,” Dr. Folsom called from the stairs. “I didn’t mean to— Am I interrupting something?”

Nicoli released me abruptly, left me standing there, staring after him in a state of swoon. He ran his hand through his hair before seating himself on the couch, a sure sign that he didn’t appreciate the interruption—and that our close call affected him too.

The clarity in my voice surprised me when I said, “Nicoli was just apologizing for his outburst.”

He laughed once, sharply, but never looked back.

Dr. Folsom appeared doubtful. “Uh, well, I was going to make some soup for dinner. Would you like to help me cut the vegetables?”

I smiled at her sheepishly as I returned the butcher knife to its home and retrieved a smaller one, more suited to the task.

The soup turned out to be delicious and the conversation captivating. Admiral Rudd regaled his past adventures on previous ships and how he ascended to his position on the
Bellator
. He informed me he’d be retiring next year, and Nicoli would assume full command.

Although this probably wasn’t news to him, Nicoli didn’t comment on the subject of his taking over. In fact, Nicoli did not comment on any of the subjects at hand, opting instead to stare broodingly into his bowl and throw me dark glances between bites. Dr. Folsom eyed him but said nothing.

After dinner the admiral invited me to take advantage of his library wall beside the fireplace. After helping Dr. Folsom clear the table, I stalked over to his massive collection and shopped the titles. The storm outside ravaged the house tirelessly—perfect reading conditions—and I hoped it would last all night.

Admiral Rudd adjusted in his chair. “That was a rather enjoyable meal, wouldn’t you agree, Nicoli? Hot soup, stimulating company.”

“Yes,” Nicoli drawled. “We should have stubborn, temperamental, upstart doctors over for dinner more often.”

The observation paused me briefly in my title search, but I picked up where I left off, ignoring his remark as if it had been about the weather. Apparently, he was still sore about my near drowning. Or my pulling a knife on him. Or my taunting him.

Also apparent was the fact that Nicoli Marek had grown too accustomed to the company of men, in general. For his benefit, I decided to serve him a much-needed dose of feminine hostility—I was going to educate him on the many delightful facets of the silent treatment.

I selected my book, a nonfiction about ocean exploration, and plopped down on the couch where Nicoli had been sitting. I pulled the throw blanket over me and immersed myself into this vastly unknown—to me—territory. My eyes burned, became heavy, the lack of sleep last night dragging down the lids. But the book was just too interesting to put down, and if I was going to ignore Nicoli, I needed a distraction.

Later, I couldn’t recall anything after page one.

I awoke surprised to find myself in the huge canopy bed on the third floor, nestled comfortably into the covers. Instinct told me how I got there. I sat up and stretched. And stopped hands-over-head like a robber. Nicoli was sprawled out next to me on top of the comforter, his black pajama pants contrasting against the sterile white of the bedding. He slept soundly, his chiseled chest heaving up and down with even breathing.

I lay down again, snuggling deeply into the covers. The morning could wait. I wanted to enjoy this moment with him, this peaceful, unprovoked state we shared now. To pretend that somehow this could be real without being wrong. Because as soon as he opened his eyes, we would have to be at odds again.

As if he heard my thoughts, his eyes fluttered open, and he caught me staring. No use in looking away—I returned his gaze without faltering, wondering what he was thinking, why he was in my bed and what he was about to do.

He smiled at me. “Good morning, love. I have to say, dreaming about you is nothing compared with waking up next to you.”

I groaned and pulled the covers over my head. Game on.

Chapter Eleven

I escaped to the bathroom, locking the door just in time.

He pounded on it once, hard, and then laughed. “Come downstairs and have some breakfast. I can smell it from here.”

I waited though, until I felt sure he was gone.

Breakfast did sound appealing. After I showered and changed into the black uniform that had materialized on the bed, I headed down the stairs.

The aroma was alluring—at first. I took a seat at the table with my three roommates, and Dr. Folsom served me a heaping, steaming omelet. I smiled up at her, but she diverted her eyes from mine and returned the pan to the kitchen. Across the table, the admiral sipped his coffee and pushed his eggs around his plate with so much concentration I thought he might be performing a ritual. I looked up to Nicoli, who got up to clear his dishes. He leaned against the refrigerator now, arms crossed.

I glanced around the room, searching for a friendly face, finding none. The sunlight streamed in the windows and patio doors, bright and refreshing. Steam danced from our collective omelets, coaxing out our appetites. A vase of long-stemmed flowers sat in the middle of the table, fragrant, yellow, conducive to cheer. The reek of conspiracy overpowered it all.

I hopped up from my seat, and Nicoli uncrossed his arms, stepping away from the fridge.

“Where are you going?” he asked, keeping his tone a dangerous casual. “You haven’t touched your breakfast.”

I stepped backward and glanced behind me to the door leading to the beach. “I’m not hungry.”

Nicoli stepped forward when I inched back again. “You need to eat, Dr. Morgan.”

So, it was Dr. Morgan again, was it? Had I committed a new offense, or did he still dwell on the old one(s)?

“No, Captain Marek.” He narrowed his eyes at me, and I raised my brow at his hypocrisy. If I was Dr. Morgan, then he was Captain Marek.

“You’ll need your strength today, Dr. Morgan,” he said. “Because I’m going to be teaching you how to swim.”

I shot a calculating look behind me. The door couldn’t have been more than ten feet from me. Time wise, a mere couple of seconds.

“You can be assured I’ll catch you,” he drawled.

I eyed the stairwell behind him. Maybe I could make it to my room and lock—

“That would be futile as well,” he said smugly.

I maneuvered behind the table and chairs. He would have to circle around to get to me, which would buy me a few seconds. Again, he could see my intent, but he had no choice but to play my game. My eyes swept the counter, bereft of the knives—and all other utensils as well. Was he afraid I’d brain him with a ladle? I glared at him.

“You shouldn’t play with knives, Dr. Morgan. You could get hurt.”

“Or you could.”

He rolled his eyes. “Not likely.”

Glaring at him gave me time to contemplate my options. We circled the table, but each time he inched closer and closer. He could see the desperation in my eyes because he said, “And don’t try any of that pressure-point stuff. I’m not as naïve as your last victim.”

I huffed, pouting, not willing to admit I’d been considering exactly that. And then I got an idea. “You can’t teach me to swim
today
,” I told him with a smile.

It took him off guard. He stopped. “And why not?”

“Because I don’t have a swimsuit.” Belatedly, I realized Dr. Folsom may very well have one I could borrow.

Nicoli thought of this too and glanced to her, but she shook her head. He frowned. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt for you to do your shopping today. Dr. Folsom said she needed to pick up a few things as well. We do have the rest of the week to concentrate on making you buoyant, at the very least.”

“Yes,” I agreed, already scheming. And I was pretty excited about the shopping part. I was in desperate need of something—anything—that wasn’t black.

As I compiled a mental list, Nicoli said, “I’ll join you. We can take the pod.”

At the same time Dr. Folsom said, “What a lovely idea,” I yelled, “You’re not invited.”

“And you’re holding my hand on the dock.” He cut off my protests with, “It’s that or I carry you. We wouldn’t want a repeat from yesterday, now would we?”

I shook my head—only the repeat
I
worried about had to do with his lips.

I held his hand as he dragged me onto the pier. The pod surfaced beside us, the glass shield breaking through the waves.

“Who’s driving it?” I asked, surprised.

“I recalled it by remote. I sent it to anchor at the bottom last night so it wouldn’t be battered by the storm.”

He jumped in and helped Dr. Folsom down. The subtle waves didn’t hint at the tempest we’d witnessed the evening before, the gentle crests hardly bothering to peak at all. The sunlight shimmered over the water like pieces of a shattered mirror, and I lifted my face to its warmth. I had missed the sun.

“Elyse?” Nicoli inquired.

I looked down to find them both waiting for me. He reached up, and I accepted his hand. He gently lowered me into the pod, pressing me against him. I knew full and well he hadn’t pulled Dr. Folsom so close. Of course, she hadn’t swan-dived off the dock last night, either. Maybe safety motivated his tight hold. Maybe he bought into my escape story. Maybe he needed to be pinched.

He scowled at me.

“What?” I asked.

“Your eyes.”

I rubbed at them. They still stung from yesterday’s ordeal. “Are they still red?”

“No. They’re green.”

I laughed, relieved. “They’ve always been green.” He was outstandingly unobservant for a captain, I decided.

“I’d forgotten the effect the sunlight has on them.”

He could only be talking about our first encounter on the docks, when I’d assaulted him with my forehead. His face now was arranged in the same shocked expression he’d worn when he pulled me from his chest that day. “There’s nothing I can do about the sunlight, Nicoli. You want me to buy some sunglasses?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He turned away and seated himself.

I stared after him, trying not to feel insulted. It wasn’t my fault he didn’t care for green eyes, and it wasn’t my fault the natural sunlight reflected the irises better than the drab, artificial lighting on the
Bellator
. If they were blue, brown or orange, the result would be the same in the direct sunlight.

Dr. Folsom cleared her throat and patted the seat next to her. I plopped down, not bothering to strap in, and crossed my arms. Although conscious I was pouting, I couldn’t help it. I had always been complimented on my eyes. And the only person whose opinion mattered at all basically just informed me he detested them. Had he intentionally sniffed out my one small scrap of vanity, then clubbed it, skinned it and stewed it?

As the pod submerged, I wondered what color eyes Nicoli’s fiancée had.

Shopping turned out to be more of a chore than a pleasure.

We visited the neighboring islands, weaving in and out of the shops. The diversity of the culture bewildered me. Tourism lured people from every nation to the area for vacationing, and the multitude and variety of the stores rivaled even the most modern malls in any big city of the world.

Nicoli served as translator for us, and I wondered if there was a language the man didn’t speak. The official language, he told me, was Dhivehi, although he said there were several other dialects, depending on the individual islands. He said the language was greatly influenced by Arabic, but that other languages, such as English and French, had a hand in the modern version of it as well. He was irritatingly informed.

He waited as we tried on our selections then paid for our items. To his good credit he never complained—even carried the heavier of our bags—but his expression belied slow, torturous death.

We used the pod to maneuver between the islands, and every time he helped me in or out of it, he frowned at me. By the end of the day, I felt so offended I couldn’t even stir up excitement about my extensive purchases, or the fact that I hadn’t spent my own money on them. I slumped in the pod on the way to the beach house, entombed in self-pity.

Dr. Folsom patted my hand. “We’re going to dinner on one of the islands. You can wear that little red number you bought. It’s a small restaurant on Ihuru, in the Kaafu Atoll. The tourists don’t even know about it. It’s James’s favorite place to eat. It’s where he proposed, in fact.”