Diamond Bay (10 page)

Her eyes were gray, completely so, without any hint of blue. They
were almost charcoal in color, but warm, and with an utter clarity that made
them seem fathomless. He felt a shock of recognition. The eyes, and the woman,
had filled his recent dreams with a tender eroticism that made his loins
tighten. But… were they dreams? The woman wasn't a dream. She was real, warm
and firm of flesh, and her hands had moved over him with the ease of
familiarity. She didn't act like a guard, but he couldn't afford to take the
chance. If he relinquished the knife he might not be able to get it back.
"I'll keep it," he said.

Rachel hesitated, wondering if she should press the issue, but
there was something in his quiet, flat tone that made her decide to let it go.
Even though he was weak and barely able to get around on his own, there was
something about him that told her he couldn't be pushed. He was a dangerous
man, this stranger sleeping in her bed. She moved her hand from his.

"All right. Are you hungry?"

"No. I ate a banana and an apple."

"How long have you been awake?"

He hadn't checked a clock, but he didn't need a clock to give him
a sense of time. "Almost an hour." His gaze hadn't wavered from her.
Rachel felt as if he could see through her, as if he were probing her mind.

"You woke up a couple of times before, but you were still
feverish and talking nonsense."

"What kind of nonsense?" he asked sharply.

Rachel regarded him calmly. "No state secrets or anything
like that. You thought you were going to a party."

Was there a double meaning to that crack about state secrets? Did
she know anything, or had that just been a coincidence? Sabin wanted to
question her, but he hardly had the upper hand at the moment, and his
exhaustion was changing into acute sleepiness. As if she knew, she touched his
face, her fingers cool and light. "Go to sleep," she said. "I'll
still be here when you wake up."

It was, ridiculously, the reassurance he needed to let him relax
into sleep.

Quietly Rachel left the room and went to the kitchen, where she
leaned weakly against the work island. Her legs were shaking, her insides
quivering like gelatin, in reaction to all that had happened to her already… and
it wasn't even noon yet! Nor did she have any of the answers she had promised
herself she would get as soon as he woke up; rather than asking questions, she
had been answering his. She hadn't been prepared for the intensity of his gaze,
so piercing that it was difficult to meet his eyes for any length of time.
Warlock's eyes… She certainly hadn't been prepared for having a knife held to
her throat! And she had been helpless, unable to do anything against a strength
that was far superior to hers, even though he was undoubtedly weak from his
wounds and illness.

The terror that had held her in its
icy grip for those few
moments had been worse than she
had ever imagined.
She had been frightened
before, but not to that degree. She was still shaking in reaction, and her eyes
burned with tears that she refused to let fall. Now wasn't the time for tears;
she had to get herself under control. He might sleep for half a day, or he
might wake up in an hour, but she was going to be in complete command of
herself whenever he woke. He would also need feeding, she thought, seizing
gratefully on something practical to do.
Banana and apple notwithstanding, his
system would probably demand frequent feedings until he had recovered.

Her movements jerky, she set beef tips simmering for beef stew and
began dicing potatoes, carrots and celery. Maybe the meal would be ready by the
time he awoke; if not, he could settle for soup and a sandwich. When everything
was in the pot she darted out to the vegetable garden and gathered the ripe
tomatoes, then ignored the heat and began pulling up weeds. It wasn't until she
finally fell to her knees on a wave of dizziness that she realized how
erratically she had been behaving, spurred on by the overdose of adrenaline her
system had absorbed that morning. It was insanity to work out in the broiling
sun, especially without a hat!

She went inside and washed her face with cold water; she felt
calmer now, though her hands were still trembling slightly. There was nothing
to do but wait: wait until the stew was ready; wait until he woke up; wait
until she got some answers… wait.

It was a tribute to her self-possession and concentration that she
was actually able to do some research for the course she would be teaching in
the fall. Like a manuscript, the course would require pacing and plotting to
hold the students' interest, to make them stretch.
Yet even though she was deeply involved in
her reading and notes, she was
so attuned to him that she heard
the slight rustle made by the bedcovers when he moved, and she knew he was
awake.
Checking her watch, she saw that he
had slept for a little over three hours; the stew would be ready, if he was
hungry.

He was sitting up, yawning and rubbing his bearded face, when she
entered the bedroom.
Instantly she felt his attention settle on her like a beam of pure
energy, tingling on
her skin.

"Are you hungry now? You've slept for three hours."

He considered that, then gave a brief nod. "Yes. I need a
bathroom, a shower and a shave first, though."

"Sorry, the shower is out while you still have
stitches," she said, hurrying to his side as he threw back the sheet and
eased his feet to the floor, wincing in pain and holding his left thigh. Rachel
put a supporting arm around him until he was steady on his feet. "I'll put
a new blade in my razor for you, though." Sensing that he preferred to get
across the room on his own power, she let her arm drop and watched anxiously as
he took each painful step. He was a loner; he wasn't accustomed to aid and
didn't welcome it, though he had to know that he simply wasn't capable of some
things right now. He would let her help him only when it was necessary. Still,
she felt compelled to ask. "Shall I shave you, or do you think you're
steady enough to do it yourself?''

He paused at the door to the bathroom and glanced over his
shoulder at her. "I'll do it."

She nodded and started toward him. "I'll just put the new
blade – "

"I'll find them," he said quietly, stopping her before
she could reach him. Rachel accepted her dismissal, turning instead toward the
other door.

It hurt to have him reject her
help after the days he had
been totally helpless and
dependent on her for everything, after the nights she had spent leaning over
him, sponging him down to keep him cool, and especially after the mental strain
she had endured.
As she set the table she tried to
deal with that hurt, to push it away. After all, she was even more of a
stranger to him than he was to her, and it was only natural that he would try
to regain control of himself as soon as possible. To a man like him, control
would be vital. She had to stop hovering over him like a mother hen.

It was easy to tell herself that, but when at last she heard the
water cut off in the bathroom she hesitated for only a moment before giving in
to the compulsion to check on him. He was standing in the middle of the bedroom
floor, looking around as if considering his options. A towel was knotted low on
his lean hips, and contrary to logic it made him seem even more naked than when
he had been completely unclothed. Rachel's pulse leaped. Even with the stark
contrast of the white bandages on his leg and shoulder, he still seemed
immensely powerful, and so male that she felt her mouth go dry.

He had shaved, and the clean line of his jaw made her fingers
twitch with the urge to stroke it – another gesture he wouldn't appreciate.

"Is there anything I could wear, or do I just go around
naked?" he finally asked, when Rachel made no move either to approach him
or to speak.

She groaned as she remembered and hit the heel of her palm against
her forehead. "I have something for you to wear. That's where I was this
morning, picking up some things you would need." The shopping bag still
lay where she had dropped it in the living room; she grabbed it and carried it
into the bedroom, where she deposited it on the bed.

He opened the bag and a curious
expression crossed his
face; then he pulled out a lacy
pair of panties and held them up to examine them before Rachel could explain.
"Size five," he commented, and looked at her as though measuring
her for the fit. The scrap of lace and nylon dangled from one finger.
"Nice, but I don't think they'll fit me."

"They weren't meant to," Rachel said calmly, still
tingling from the once-over he'd given her. "They were camouflage, that's
all. Anything you find in there that you don't ordinarily use, put back in the
bag." She refused to be embarrassed, since she had only done what had
seemed necessary. The "camouflage" had been darned expensive, too!
Leaving him to dress in whatever he chose, she returned to the kitchen and
popped buttered fresh bread into the oven, then ladled up the stew and poured
tea into tall glasses full of ice.

"I need help with the shirt."

She hadn't heard him approach, and she whirled, startled by both
his nearness and what he'd said. He was standing right behind her, clad in the
black denim cutoffs and holding the terry-cloth pullover in his hand. His chest
filled her vision, tautly powerful muscles covered with black, curling hair and
the white bulk of the bandage wrapped around his left shoulder. How long had he
struggled with the shirt before admitting that he couldn't manage it by
himself? She was astonished that he hadn't simply exchanged it for one that
buttoned, so he wouldn't have to ask for her help.

"Sit down so I can reach you better," she said, taking
the shirt from his hand. He held the corner of the cabinets for support as he
slowly limped to the table in the dining alcove and eased himself down onto one
of the chairs.
Rachel
carefully worked the shirt up his arm, a look of intent concentration on her
face as she tried not to jostle his shoulder. When she had it in place she
said, "Put your other arm in the sleeve while I keep it from pulling on
your shoulder."

Without a word he did as she directed, and together they pulled
the shirt over his head. Rachel tugged it into place, much as a mother would
dress a toddler, but the man sitting motionless under her ministrations was no
child in any sense she could imagine. She didn't linger over the chore, well
aware of his dislike for having to rely on her aid. Briskly she got the bread
out of the oven and put it in the napkin-lined breadbasket, then placed the
basket on the table and took her own chair. "Are you left-handed or
right-handed?" she asked, not looking at him, even though she could feel
the burning energy of his gaze on her face. "Ambidextrous. Why?"

"The spoon could be difficult for you to handle if you were
left-handed," she replied, nodding at the stew. "Would you like
bread?"

"Please."

He was very good at one-word sentences, she thought as she put the
bread on his plate. Actually, she should have thought of asking him if he could
handle the razor, too, but his clean-shaven face said that he evidently could.
They ate in silence for a few moments, and he really did justice to the stew.
She hadn't expected his appetite to be so good so early in his recovery.

The bowl was nearly empty when he put his spoon down and pinned
her with the ebony fire of his eyes. "Tell me what's going on."

It was a demand that Rachel didn't feel like meeting. Carefully
she put her own spoon down. "I think it's my turn to ask a few questions.
Who are you? What's your name?"

He didn't like the counterdemand. She sensed his displeasure,
though his expression didn't flicker.
The hesitation lasted for barely a second, but she noticed it and had
the immediate impression that he wasn't going to answer.
Then he drawled, "Call me, 'Joe'."

"I can't do that," she replied. "'Joe' is what I
call the dog, because he wouldn't tell me his name, either. Make up another
one."
Driven by the
electric surge of tension in the air she began clearing off the table, moving
swiftly and
automatically. He watched her for a
moment, then said quietly, "Sit
down."

Rachel didn't pause. "Why? Do I have to be sitting down to
listen to more lies?"

"Rachel, sit down." He didn't raise his voice, didn't
change the calm, dead-level inflection of his tone, but suddenly it was a
command. She stared at him for a moment, then lifted her chin and returned to
her chair.
When she
merely waited in silence, looking at him, he gave a little
sigh.

"I appreciate your help, but
the less you know, the better
it is for you."

Rachel had always hated it when anyone presumed to know what was
best for her and what wasn't. "I see. Was I not supposed to notice that
you had two bullet holes in you, when I pulled you out of the surf? Was I
supposed to turn my head when two men pretending to be FBI agents came looking
for you, and just turn you over to them? Was it supposed to pass my notice that
you held a knife to my throat this morning? I'm a little curious, I admit! I've
nursed you for four days, and I really would like to know your name, if that
isn't too much to ask!"