Suspicious Ways (16 page)

Ali looked back at him, silent, mesmerizing blue eyes almost eating up her face.

“When I saw you at Andrew’s funeral,” he continued, his chest tight, “looking so sad and lost and beautiful, that fear hit me again. Hard. Making me want to hug you for being alive, and kill you for being in such a dangerous situation.”

“But Jack.” Ali frowned. “That’s what blue-water sailing is. Dangerous. You know that as well as I do. As well as Dad did.”

“You’re right. But that didn’t matter then. Cold fear had been eating away at me all day. By the time I found you on
Wind Seeker
that evening it’d almost consumed me. All I wanted to do was tell you how devastated I would have been if I’d lost you as well, but instead, I snapped.” He let out a sigh. “I’m sorry, babe. I’m truly, truly sorry.”

Ali hadn’t moved. She was watching him silently, her normally straight eyebrows dipped into a slight frown.

Jack waited, fingers brushing a few loose wisps of her hair behind her ear, heart a pounding sledgehammer in his chest. What was she going to say?

It wasn’t until Ali leant towards him and placed her lips on his mouth, that he realized he was holding his breath. His head was suddenly dizzy, but he wasn’t sure if it was due to a lack of oxygen, or the thoroughly passionate way Ali was now kissing him.

Tight heat surged through him, like thrumming electricity on full charge. He reached for her and dragged her closer. She came willingly. Pressing her body against his, her hands sliding over his arms and shoulders to tangle in his hair. Her tongue met his, soft yet powerful, and Jack felt as though she was draining him of his life force. It was the sweetest sensation he’d ever experienced, like the impossible fusion of light and honey.

You’re making no sense, McKenzie, he thought deliriously. But then Ali’s fingers found him swollen and rigid, and he couldn’t think any more.

Chapter Eight

His hands were sending her mad, making her crazy. Wild. A sound escaped her lips, the kind she’d only thought existed in the minds of men who wrote into Playboy, the kind that was dirty and sexy and utterly filled with pleasure.

She
was utterly filled with pleasure.

She hovered on the brink, like a note played on a violin, waiting, waiting for the final crescendo that would explode and shatter into light and sound and heat and flooding ecstasy.

“Jack,” she moaned, unable to bear it anymore. It was agonizing, blissful torture. “Jack.”

His hands moved over her body, traveling down her thighs, cupping the curve of her calves before sliding back up to the slick centre of her sex, his fingers gently delving and seeking as his lips began to follow the very path his hands had just journeyed. She sucked in a sharp breath as they reached their destination, his tongue flicking and tasting, tasting and flicking. She moaned again, the same sound that came from her throat but felt like it came from her toes.

Oh God, this is incredible.

She curled her fingers in his hair, clenching as the building tension, that crescendo, threatened to overwhelm her.

His tongue flicked out and teased the nub of her clit, sending shots of squirming tension into the very centre of her being. As his tongue drove her to heaven, his fingers sowed the way. Dipping and twisting and delving. How was she to recover from this? How could she ever come down?

There was a spasm, a heat that was neither hot nor warm but burnt her to the very core all the same, and then Jack slid up her body, his lips taking hers as he plunged into her sex, and that heat became an inferno boiling and rolling through her. Not just pushing her over the edge but catapulting her. Sending her into a state of pure pleasure that rocked her very senses.

She cried his name. Uncaring the yacht in the next pen would hear, not caring at all her voice was hoarse and raw and filled with sexual satisfaction. Nothing mattered except the tidal wave that rolled through her in wave after wave after wave. Nothing mattered but the man who’d been the cause of it all.

Oh God, she loved him.

Jack’s lips explored her neck and shoulder with lazy, delicious speed, kissing and nibbling her skin as he made his way to her jaw, her chin and finally her mouth once more. “What have you done to me, Ali?” he whispered, hands continuing to roam her body. “I can’t get enough of you. Every time we make love I just crave you even more.”

Ali smiled at the incredulous tone threading through his words. She knew exactly what he meant. His touch was a drug, but she hadn’t expected its addictive strength, hadn’t expected how quickly—easily—she’d become hooked. Even now, as they lay pressed against each other, breathless and covered in a faint sheen of perspiration, she felt that hunger beginning to stir again, a craving need that would only be sated when he took her once more to the edge and beyond.

“If I can’t make love to you every night—” he gazed into her eyes, “—I’ll go mad.”

“Then you’ll just have to make love to me every night.” Ali smiled. “I couldn’t bear being responsible if you were committed.”

A grin pulled at Jack’s lips. “I can just see the paperwork. Reason for loss of sanity—failure to make love to Ali Graham within a twenty-four-hour period.”

Ali laughed. “Do you think you could claim me as a medical expense?”

“I doubt it,” Jack chuckled. “But I don’t care one little bit.”

He cupped her face in his hands and his lips found hers again, soft and gently. She kissed him back, thrilling at the intoxicating flush that began to spread through her anew.

They made love again. Powerful. Silent. Staring into each other’s eyes as they climbed to the peak of the mountain. Ali’s desire erupting and smoldering in Jack’s eyes as he thrust inside her, holding her in his arms as he held her with his burning gaze.

Lying with their legs entwined, her palm resting on his chest as she listened to his heart and his deep and even breathing, Ali sighed softly and said the words she’d been thinking and feeling for what seemed an eternity, her voice barely a whisper in the silent yacht.

“I love you.”

Faint morning light filtered into the stateroom. Jack shifted slightly, moving just enough so he could gently kiss Ali’s closed eyelids. He was tired and his body was physically drained, but even that simplest of contact caused a tightening in his loins. His balls.

He smoothed his palm along the firm length of Ali’s forearm, down to the dip of her waist and the rise of her hip, letting it rest on there.

He was ready to make love to her again, to show her just how much she affected him, but perhaps getting some sleep was a pretty wise idea. They’d spent the night exploring each other’s bodies. Had made love over and over again, unable to quench their thirst for the other’s touch and taste. If they didn’t get at least a couple of hours sleep now they wouldn’t be at their best to sail home. Jack closed his eyes for a moment. Later today he was going to find Peterson, return his check and inform the prick he’d have to fly back to Sydney. Christ, Jack would even pay for the ticket and write a check for the cost of the charter. There was no fucking way he was going to let that man spend any time alone with Ali. Ever.

Opening his eyes, wanting to look at her for a quiet moment before he went to sleep, Jack reached up and brushed the wisps of hair lying across her cheek and neck behind her ear, enjoying the feel of the silken strands against his fingers. His gaze traced the fine line of her jaw and neck to her—

He frowned. A small mark marred Ali’s neck just below her ear. He studied it, his mind ticking over. It looked like a bruise. A suspiciously shaped bruise.

Squinting against the dimness of the room, Jack looked at it harder. It
was
a bruise. But not one caused by impact.

His frown deepened. Had he done that?

He knew the answer already but, goddamn it, he did
not
want to consider what it meant. If
his
mouth hadn’t caused the purple-red love bite on Ali’s neck, than that left only one person.

Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, Jack dragged in a slow breath. He was seeing things. He had to be.

He tried to think back through their lovemaking. Tried to remember if he’d looked at or kissed her throat. He couldn’t. It was all too wild, too combustible.

But surely, if it had been there before, he would have seen it. He narrowed his eyes, studying the bruise. It was faint. And almost hidden by the heavy curtain of her hair. Was that the reason he hadn’t noticed it before? Or had he been so overwhelmed with his own pleasure he’d miss it?

Or, worse, had Ali tried to hide it from him?

Opening his eyes, he returned his attention to her neck.

There it was—faded and purple but utterly undeniable. Peterson’s mark on Ali’s flesh.

Jack flicked his stare to her face. She was asleep, her features completely relaxed, her breathing regular and deep. He looked at her for a long moment. A hollow emptiness settled into his stomach, as wrenching and painful as it was numbing. Why did she have a love bite from Peterson? Why the hell did she have a love bite on her neck from Zane Peterson?

He sat. Abruptly. Sliding from the bed, he collected his clothes as he walked from the stateroom.

Jesus, a love bite. A love bite from…

Stumbling to a halt in the cabin, he yanked on his shorts, all too aware of the rage building in him.

His gut rolled. He squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten. It was the only way to stop himself walking back into the stateroom. If he did so, if he confronted Ali now, while he felt so angry, he might do something he’d later regret.

He shook his head. No, this couldn’t be right. There
had
to be an explanation. She’d told him she wasn’t involved with Peterson. She’d told him she wasn’t lying. He’d believed her.

Or did he just want to because he craved her so badly?

A low growl rumbling in his chest, he crossed the cabin, snatched up his glasses from the galley’s bench as he stepped up into the cockpit. He glared out at the busy marina, staring blindly at the surrounding boats. She’d played him for a bloody fool and he’d gone willingly, his heart and lust overruling his head. “Damn you, Ali.” He clenched his jaw. “Why?”

His gut rolled some more.
It’s not what you think, Jack. It can’t be. Ali wouldn’t do that.

So where did it come from? If he didn’t do it, who did? She’d only been with one other person for the last twelve days, so that narrowed down the options to just one.

“Is this
Wind Seeker
?”

Jack started at the unexpected voice, spinning to face the jetty.

A young boy dressed in the uniform of a bellhop from the Honiara Hotel stood at the yacht’s aft.

Jack gave a sharp nod. “Yes.”

The young boy held out a folded note and a small golden box. “I have a message for the owner of
Wind Seeker
. From Mr. Zane Peterson.”

His blood roaring in his ears, Jack took the parcel and gave the deliverer some notes from his pocket in exchange. “Thanks.”

With a grin, the bellhop ran back up the jetty and disappeared into the growing morning crowd at the clubhouse. Jack watched him go, a numb sense of foreboding settling in his chest. He turned his attention to what he now held in his hand, his mouth dry. Christ, when had his life become such a farce? He stared at the note, the package. Did he dare read it?? Open it?

He pictured the love bite on Ali’s neck, its damning purple bruise the only answer he needed. Hands steady, pulse pounding, he unfolded the paper and read the note.

Ali,

Unfortunately, I’ve just received an urgent message and need to fly back to Sydney, so we won’t be able to finish what we’ve started until later.

A deal is a deal however, and because you upheld your end so perfectly I’m going to double our agreed amount. Another way of saying thank you for the most pleasurable trip. It is the least I can do. Come to my home when you get back to collect your payment. I shall cook you dinner.

Z.

P.S. I hope you like the small gift. I look forward to seeing it on you. By the way, say hello to McKenzie for me.

Jack drew a slow breath.
Anger throbbed through him. Cold and black.

He looked up at the mainland, almost expecting to find Peterson standing at the yacht club, smirking at him. Did Peterson mention him in the note to antagonize him? Did he know Jack was here? In the Solomons? He clenched his jaw, feeling his teeth grind against each other. What the hell was going on? Was he being played for a fool?

He calmly folded the note and looked at the small gold box in his hand. It wasn’t his to open, but he couldn’t stop himself. Hands steady despite the rapid tattoo of his heart, he lifted the lid and removed what was inside.

A long gold chain of fine links dangled from his fingers, its weight and pure color an indication of its obvious worth. But it was what hung on the chain that caused Jack’s pain to twist like a knife in his chest.

A small diamond-encrusted Pelican.

He stared at it, eyes burning.

Years ago, returning from a weekend sailing trip with the Grahams, Jack had asked Andrew why he called his daughter Pelican. Jack had been unable to stop his eyes flicking to the then seventeen-year-old Ali where she sat at the end of
Suspicious Ways
’ bow, her long legs curled up to her chest, her chin resting on her knees while she and her mother talked. In Jack’s opinion the name suited her. It was both ungainly yet graceful, but he wondered about its origins.