In McGillivray's Bed (4 page)

She'd shock the socks off the entire fleet! And then what would she do? Amble down the dock to use the facilities at the Customs house dressed in nothing but Belle's quilt? Or worse,
without
Belle's quilt!

Hugh shook his head vehemently, cutting the engine off as they drifted toward the dock. “Not on your life. Uh-uh. No way. Don't even think it.”

But obviously she was. “I wouldn't hurt anything. I'd clean up after myself.” She looked around the boat. “After you,” she amended, wrinkling her nose. “This boat could use a good scrubbing.”

“It's a boat, for God's sake, not a floor,” he protested. They bumped against the rubber-tire-edged dock.

“Even so, a little soap and water wouldn't hurt it,” she informed him primly.

“No.” He grabbed the stern line and wrapped it around
the cleat on the dock, then jumped out to do the same with the bow.

The crazy woman followed him, letting Belle out of the quilt and giving Hugh tantalizing glimpses of bare flesh. “Don't be so negative, McGillivray,” she bargained. “Just one night. Or two. I'll scrub the decks for you. Slap on some paint. I like being useful.”

“No. You'd give the fishermen heart attacks.” He jumped back into the boat and brushed past her, reaching for the cooler.

“I could stay hidden until they left.”

“No.”

“Then how about if I stay with you?”

“Me?” Hugh blanched and jerked around to glare at her. “You don't want to stay with me.”

“I certainly don't,” she agreed readily. “But I need somewhere that Roland won't find me.”

“Not my place. I live in a shack.”

Which wasn't quite true. His place was small, granted, but it wasn't falling down. It overlooked the beach on the windward side of the island. It was old and comfortable. Perfect for him—and far too small for entertaining the likes of Sydney St. John.

“A shack, huh? Why am I not surprised?” she murmured.

He rose to the bait. “By your standards,” he clarified, “it would be a shack. By mine it's just right.”

“I'm sure it is. And for me it will be, too—for a short time. Just until I get my head together, McGillivray. Just until I figure out a plan of action. And give Roland pause for thought. I won't be any trouble,” she promised.

And if he believed that, next thing you knew she'd be selling him a bridge from Nassau to Miami.

“There is no room,” Hugh said firmly. “It's just a little beach house. Not your style.”

“How do you know my style?”

“I know women.”

“Oh, really?”

The doubt that dripped from her words infuriated him. He did know women. They'd been coming on to him since he was fourteen years old. And generally speaking they liked what they saw. It was only Sydney St. John who looked at him as if she'd found him on the sole of her shoe.

“Like I said,” he told her gruffly, “I'm not your style.”

“I can stand anything for a few days,” she informed him.

“Well, I can't. And there is nothing you can say that will—” He broke off at the sound of a shrill, happy voice calling his name from the end of the quay. He gritted his teeth and shut his eyes. “Damn it to hell.”

Sydney St. John looked at him, startled. “What?”

“Nothing.” He finished tossing the last of the gear onto the dock, grabbed his bag with one hand and took Syd's arm none too gently with the other. Then he turned toward the woman approaching them and managed a casual and determinedly indifferent, “Hey, there, Lisa. How you doing?”

Lisa flashed him her beautiful, dimpled smile even as she looked curiously at the woman he held firmly at his side. “I'm all right,” she said, her voice a little hesitant for once. “But I was a little lonely. I thought you'd get back sooner than this.”

“I told you I had, um…business,” Hugh said vaguely.

“Business?” The smile wavered as Lisa looked at Syd. “Of course,” she said, slotting Syd into that role. “I didn't realize you were bringing a client back with you.” She gave Syd a polite smile, then turned back to Hugh. “I made conch chowder this evening. I figured I'd bring it over when you got back.”

He shook his head. “Thanks, Lisa. I appreciate the thought. But we're fine.”

Lisa's smile faltered as he had hoped it would. “We?” Perplexed, she looked from Hugh to the woman standing beside him, the woman whose wrist he had a death grip on.

“We,” Hugh confirmed. He let go of her wrist long enough to loop an arm over her shoulders. “This is Syd—” he began, but Sydney cut him off before he got to her last name.

“I'm very pleased to meet you,” she said smoothly and offered Lisa a hand.

Lisa looked at it warily, but finally shook it, giving the quilt—and the bits of bare Sydney she could see—an assessing look. “You, too, um, Syd,” she said doubtfully even as she managed to paste the smile back on. “I'm Lisa. Are you staying at the Mirabelle? Or the Moonstone?”

“No,” Hugh said before Sydney St. John could say anything at all. “She's staying with me.”

If she was astonished at his sudden about-face, at least Syd didn't say a word. It was what she wanted, after all. She'd practically begged him to let her stay with him, hadn't she?

So he was doing them both a favor.

Roland Wheeler Dealer would get a few days of worrying about whether he'd drowned the boss's daughter, and Hugh would have a beautiful sexy woman living in his house.

If that didn't convince Lisa once and for all that he was not interested in her, he didn't know what would.

Yes, of course Sydney St. John was a little bit whacko and more than a little bit gorgeous. And yes, all his hormones had sat up and taken note.

So what? He could handle it.

It was one night. Maybe two. At the most, three.

How bad could it possibly be?

“D
ON'T
go using
me
to make your girlfriend jealous!” Syd protested as McGillivray, his arm still wrapping her shoulders like a vise, hustled her down the dock toward the quay. Over her shoulder she could see Lisa staring after them, lower lip trembling.

“She's
not
my girlfriend!”

“Then why is she cooking you conch chowder and meeting your boat?”

“Because she wants to be my girlfriend,” McGillivray said through gritted teeth, sounding beleaguered as he dragged her along.

She clutched at the quilt, nearly tripping, as she hurried to keep up. “Really? Your girlfriend? Why? She looks far too sensible to me!”

“I wish,” McGillivray muttered. “And God knows why,” he added. “I sure don't.”

They reached a rusty, topless Jeep parked at the foot of the dock, and he tossed his gear into the back, then jerked open the door for her. “Come on. Get in. We don't have all day.”

“Oh?” It was interesting to see how the girl, Lisa, had spooked McGillivray. He didn't look the sort to be afraid of women. Tucking the quilt up, Syd climbed into the Jeep. “What's the problem, then? Does she want to save you from yourself?”

He barely let her get her feet in before he banged the door shut behind her. “That's what my sister says.” He
gave a short sharp whistle and slapped the wheel. “Come on, Belle! Move it.”

Belle took a leap and landed in the back, on top of McGillivray's bag, some pots and pans, a few unidentified tools, a couple of grease-streaked T-shirts and some paper bags that looked as if they had once contained take-out meals. K-rations, Syd thought. And they'd probably been there since World War II. General Patton would have been right at home. “What a mess.”

Her opinion of his Jeep and its contents didn't seem to matter to McGillivray. He ignored her and ruffled the dog's fur. Then he turned and loped back up the dock. He stopped to have a brief conversation with Lisa as he piled into her arms a bunch of the stuff he'd taken from the boat and put on the dock. Then he hoisted the cooler into his own arms, and they walked back to the Jeep together.

Syd stared. If Lisa wasn't his girlfriend, what was she? His packhorse?

“Thanks,” Hugh said cheerfully to Lisa when they got there. “Just toss all that stuff in the back with Belle.”

Lisa did. And when she did, Syd noted that the “stuff” included her beaded dress. Lisa had obviously noticed it, too. She swallowed hard, but then smiled again with clear determination.

McGillivray didn't appear to notice. He was whistling as he stowed the cooler in the back of the Jeep. “Thanks a lot,” he said breezily, then jumped into the Jeep, flicked on the key already stuck in the ignition. “You're a pal, Lise.”

Lisa looked stricken.

McGillivray just stomped the gas pedal, and they shot off up the street.

“You hurt her feelings!” Syd remonstrated as they bounced along.

McGillivray shrugged and hit another pothole. The narrow street was paved but there were more potholes than tarmac as it climbed the hill straight up from the dock. On
both sides she saw wooden and stucco houses and shops. Most of the people walking about called out a greeting to Hugh, who waved carelessly back as they bounced up the hill.

Most of the houses they passed had small front gardens or none at all. Some had high walls that butted right against the street. Others had broad overhung porches. All of them, as far as Syd could tell in the minimal light from the few scattered street lamps, looked to be of the same vintage as the Jeep or a hundred or so years older. All of them were in better repair than the street itself.

“Hang on,” McGillivray suggested as he took a hard right and she nearly bounced out. “I've lost a few passengers who haven't.”

Slowly, casually—his earlier “gotcha” still ringing in her ears—Syd reached out to take hold of the bar at the side of the windshield. Just then the Jeep hit a particularly wide and deep pothole, and she scrabbled for a grip to save herself from lurching over the side.

She turned to glare at McGillivray.

“Warned you.” He grinned.

A dozen or so potholes later, he took a sharp left past a broad open field, and then right onto a gravel track into the trees. Abruptly they left the small town behind and plunged into the blackness. Now the road seemed barely wider than the Jeep, and the vegetation rose up on both sides to meet above them. Even with the headlights' illumination, Syd couldn't make out a thing. Through the foliage Syd caught sight of occasional lights. Lamps in windows, she surmised as the Jeep slowed and McGillivray whipped it sharply first right, then left, then right again and all at once, a wall loomed in front of them. McGillivray braked, spraying dirt and gravel, then cut the engine.

“Home sweet home,” he announced.

Syd breathed again. Once. Then Belle leaped out and McGillivray followed.

“Come on,” he said to Syd. “And watch out for snakes.”

“Snakes?”
Dear God. Syd huddled deeper into the quilt. But even as she sat there she heard his footsteps disappearing around the side of the building. And in the silence there were rustlings in the shrubbery, the sound of branches cracking, slitherings—

“Wait! I'm coming!” She leaped out of the Jeep, hitched up the quilt and flew after him. Breathless, heart pounding, she rounded the corner of the house just as the porch light went on.

Correction: porch
lights.
A whole string of glowing pink flamingos interspersed with neon-green palm trees dangled along the edge of his roof.

“Why am I not surprised?” Syd muttered. “All you need now is a string of hula girls.”

“Wrong islands,” he said cheerfully from the doorway. “But I didn't let that stop me,” he said as he flipped another switch and strings of hula girls lit up each of the porch columns.

Syd sputtered, but she couldn't help laughing. “What does your girlfriend think of these?”

“She's
not
my girlfriend!”

“Right.” But if saying so would get a rise of out him, Syd didn't mind doing it. She was still smiling as she climbed the four shallow steps to the porch, which was as cluttered as the Jeep had been, scattered with swim fins, snorkles and fishing nets, assorted pots and pans, a dog bed, food and water dishes and myriad unidentifiable mechanical objects.

A net hammock was strung across one end of the porch, and a long slatted-wood porch swing swayed at the other. Behind the latter were tucked a surfboard and a boogie board. Above it a disembodied wet suit swung lazily from a clothes hanger on a plant hook. The plant that it might have displaced was balanced precariously on the porch railing.

He was right. It wasn't close to the five-star hotel she had left behind on Nassau. On the other hand, no one was announcing her betrothal as if it were on the dinner menu here.

And so far she hadn't seen any snakes.

“How lovely,” she said brightly, stepping over a pan.

McGillivray gave her a doubtful look. But Syd met it with a cheerful, determined one of her own. And she must have been convincing because he said gruffly, “C'mon. Don't just stand there. You'll want a shower. I'll find you some clothes.”

The chaos extended into the kitchen, where newspapers and magazines were scattered amid pots and pans. There were some engine parts on one chair and a pile of laundry on another. Yet another pile was on the floor. The sink, of course, held dirty dishes.

“I thought hurricane season was in the autumn,” Syd remarked.

“Bothers you, do something about it.” McGillivray was busy rummaging through one of the clothes heaps. The clean one, Syd hoped when he pulled out a navy T-shirt and a pair of shorts, surveyed the pile, hesitated, then turned and thrust them at her. “You want a pair of boxers?”

She blinked. “What?”

“I said, do you want a pair of boxers? You're, er—” he gestured down below her waist but couldn't seem to say the word “—wet,” he finally managed, scowling.

Was that a tinge of red creeping up his neck and touching the tips of his ears?

His face was definitely red. Talking about women's underwear embarrassed Hugh McGillivray?

Who'd have thought it? “That would be nice. Thank you,” Syd said politely, smothering a smile.

He gave her another long, baleful look before reaching back into the pile and snagging a pair of pale-blue boxer shorts to toss in her direction. “You can borrow some clothes from my sister tomorrow if you want. Not that Mol
has any girls' clothes, either,” he added with a grimace. “Or you can go shopping. Shower's this way.” He turned abruptly and headed toward the back of the house.

Syd clutched the clothes, hiked up her quilt and followed him. To the left she saw what appeared to be a small living room, but McGillivray went straight back through a bedroom toward a door that led to a tiny bathroom. At least he had indoor plumbing. She'd begun to worry.

He also had one clean towel. At least she presumed it was, because he got it out of the cupboard. He turned on the shower taps. “Let the water run. It'll get hot eventually. Don't use it all up.”

“I won't,” she assured him.

But he was already on his way out the door. “Watch out for spiders.”

“Spiders?”
She looked around wildly.

McGillivray grinned wickedly over his shoulder. “Gotcha,” he mouthed.

She wanted to kill him.

“A woman who isn't afraid of sharks shouldn't let a little spider or two bother her,” he said. “I'll fix us something to eat.” The door banged shut behind him.

There were no spiders. There were no snakes. She was alone. And suddenly every bit of the adrenaline that had been fueling her since Roland's astonishing announcement vanished.

Her breath came in quick thready gasps. Her heart beat in a crazy staccato rhythm. Her vision darkened, and the room seemed to spin.

“Oh, help!” She groped for something to hang on to and grabbed the towel rack—right off the wall.

The door burst open.

“For God's sake!” McGillivray kicked the towel rack aside and crouched beside her on the floor. “What the hell happened?”

“N-nothing. I…n-nothing.” She tried to get up, but found herself shoved down again and held fast.

“Did you faint?”

“Of course not!” But her brain was still spinning and her legs felt like mush. Even so, she squirmed against his hold.

“Stay still,” McGillivray commanded and thrust her head unceremoniously between her knees. “Take deep breaths—and don't faint again!”

“I
didn't faint!
” she said again for all the good it did her.

As if it were a matter of choice, anyway, she thought grimly, sucking in oxygen, doing her best not to make a liar out of herself, while a firm hand pressed against the back of her neck.

“Breathe, damn it.”

“I'm trying—” gulp, gulp “—to.”

“Then stop talking. Breathe deeper. Big breaths.”

God, he was bossy! “I'm all right,” she protested. “I just…tripped.”

“Yeah, right. Breathe.”

She did. And the blood thrummed in her ears and her heart slammed against the wall of her chest. But gradually her heart slowed, her vision returned. McGillivray's callused hand, though, held her head firmly down.

She shifted. “I'm all right now,” she insisted, and pushed back against his hand.

He eased the pressure a bit. “Take it easy.” He watched her warily as she straightened up, as if expecting her to go headfirst onto the floor again.

Determined not to, she took another deep breath and sat up straight. The quilt fell away from her shoulders.

McGillivray's breath hissed through his teeth. Reaching over, he jerked the quilt back up and wrapped it tightly around her again.

Surprised, Syd looked up at him.

He glared back at her. “What?”

“Nothing. I just…you seem…” She was babbling, but
she couldn't help it. “I didn't think—” But it did make sense of things.

“You didn't think what?” he demanded.

“That you were gay.”

“What?”
He jerked as if she'd shot him. “What the hell do you mean, I'm gay?” McGillivray's voice was a roar.

“Well, you keep covering me up!” Syd shouted back at him. “As if the sight offends you! I know I'm no raving beauty—” God knew Roland had been quite capable of resisting her “—but I'm passably attractive. At least, no one else has ever been at such pains not to have to look at me.”

He snorted and scrambled to his feet, as if putting as much distance between them as he could. “And that makes me gay?”

“I just thought… You said Lisa wasn't your girlfriend. You were very…adamant about it. And you said your sister thought she was trying to, um, save you from yourself.”

It all made sense as far as Syd could see. “I don't mind if you are,” she told him.

“Is that supposed to be comforting?”

“Well, I—”

He straightened up, wincing a little as he did so, then glowered down at her. “Do I look like I'm gay, sweetheart?” he drawled.

From her vantage point, at the level of his hairy, tanned knees, Syd looked slowly up—and came to the very obvious evidence that he was not.

“Oh,” she said in a very small voice.

McGillivray looked somewhere between pained and gratified at her realization. “Exactly,” he muttered.

Syd knew her face was burning. “Um…sorry. Is there…anything I can do?”

McGillivray goggled at her. “Are you for real?”

God, she might go up in flames! “I didn't mean
that!
” she protested. “I just—never mind!” Obviously, she wasn't good at this sort of thing.

“I'll live,” McGillivray said dryly in the face of her confusion. Then he reached out a hand. “Here. Can you stand on your own two feet?”