Tides of Passion (13 page)

Sitting nearby, but not close enough to tempt either one of them, she pulled her skirt to midcalf and wormed her feet into the silken sand. Humid air whipped in from the east in gusts, and with an exhalation of surrender, she released her hair from the loose knot on her head.

"Lost, Irish?" His deep voice cut through the sound of the pounding surf.

So he did see her. Settling back against the dune, she gathered her thoughts. "Your family thinks we hate each other."

"Good. That'll keep them from asking questions."

"Do you, I mean, is this...." She shrugged, sending grains of sand down the back of her dress.

She had to ask.

"Wanting to wring your pretty little neck every other minute isn't enough to keep me from wanting to touch you, if that's where you're headed." He sighed, kicking at the driftwood. "Nothing seems to be enough."

"I'm sorry."

"For what?" Scooting close, he captured a strand of her hair between his thumb and finger. "For making me angry or making me yearn?"

Averting her gaze from the breadth of skin exposed by his unbuttoned shirt, she released a pent-up breath. "For my histrionics earlier this evening."

He seized her chin in his palm and directed her eyes to his face. "Say it again."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, stomach doing the familiar dance that must be what he called
yearning
.

He shook his head. "No. The big word."

She frowned, puzzled. Big word? Oh. "
Histrionics
."

His attention centered on her mouth, recording every movement of her lips. "I love watching you talk, Irish. When we're in bed the first time, I want you to whisper one of those big words you love every time I slide inside you." He wrapped the strand of hair around his finger in a lazy rotation. "I don't care what they mean."

Her face colored; she felt it flame. Her lips opened, closed, her brain powerless to string together a sentence, big words
or
small.

"You're afraid."

She shook her head. It didn't feel like fear.

It felt like excitement.

"There's no need. We'll take it at your pace. You tell me when, where, and how much. Or how little."

"We'll be friends when it's over?"

A stray beam of moonlight spilled across his face in time for her to see his pause, his thoughtful deliberation. It made her feel good to know he tried to answer honestly. "I think so, yes."

Her eyes again dropped to his chest, the sprinkling of dark hair glistening. With perspiration or perhaps salt water.

Releasing her chin, he slipped his shirt from his shoulders and shook it from his arms. Lifting her hand from its mired position in the sand, he placed it palm-flat on his chest. "Go ahead. I think you want to. Hell, my good sense dissolved like mist the moment you stepped off the ferry. You might as well lose yours."

His head dropped back, his lids sliding low as she began to explore; the sand coating her fingers an oddly pleasurable abrasion.

His hair felt springy, sitting in tight curls close to his chest. She circled his nipples and watched them harden, feeling her own pucker beneath her borrowed dress. Zach's heartbeat thudded beneath the heel of her hand, his breath rushing forth in a belabored groan. Gaining courage, she traced each rib with her finger and drew her knuckles along the downy hollow trailing into his damp waistband.

He caught her there, his fingers trembling.

As she had told Elle, she understood the mechanics of intercourse. She'd made it a point to read every book she could get her hands on. Most of these were condemned by libraries and school districts over the years, many because of their blatant descriptions of the act of coupling. She had also studied anatomy at university. It was better than complete ignorance but, sadly, only illustrations in a book.

She vaguely visualized what lay beneath the protuberance in Zachariah Garrett's trousers.

A teasing smile blossomed on her face. She waited until his lids flickered, lifted. "Protuberance," she whispered, then licked her lips to see if this added to his enthrallment.

The hand holding hers squeezed as he breathed, "If I kiss you now, I'll have you on your back in less time than it takes to say pro, pro—"

"Protuberance."

His gaze flicked from her lips to her eyes, then made an expansive sweep of her body. "And I don't want us prone just yet." His thumb covered the pulsing vein at her wrist. "Would you think I was crazy if I said I wanted to take this very slowly?"

Laughter sounded in the distance, reminding her of where they were and how little time they had.

"It sounds quite rational to me," Savannah whispered.

"It isn't. Not to a man's way of thinking." Rolling to his back, he pulled her with him until she was balanced on her elbow at his side. "I haven't talked to a soul, and I surely haven't touched a woman, while being just plain Zach Garrett, in I can't remember how long. I want to be with you without being a daddy or an officeholder or the damned keeper of the cargo that washes up on shore." He sighed. "I just want to
be
. Enough to enjoy every blessed second. Enough to show you everything and to remember everything."

"Sounds divine. So what's the hurry?"

"Ahhh, Irish, how can I explain that to you? It's something you have to experience for yourself."

"With your help, I presume."

He squeezed her hand, smiling his lazy smile. "Yes, ma'am. You can count on that."

Tugging free, she traced the scar on his lip. "You know I've never...." She dropped her hand to his chest. "Never."

Shifting to face her, sand squeaked beneath him. "I know."

"I'm not scared." And she wasn't.

Much.

Zach laughed softly, his lips pulling back from his teeth. "I wouldn't
presume
to put scared and Savannah in the same sentence. Besides, there's nothing to be afraid
of
. I won't let anything happen to you, except wondrous things that'll make you float on a cloud for days. I make that promise. To protect you, to keep your best interests in mind. You can carry it with you now and take it when you go home. At first I thought we were an awful idea, mostly because I suspected you were a virgin, and a bit because I wasn't sure if I wanted to, if I could,
live
again. But I know I want to be with you, I
know
I can take care of you in this." He scrubbed his hand over his face. "Jesus, I might as well face up to how good I am at that."

I can take care of you
. When had anyone last taken care of her?

Her mother, before her death.

Savannah realized the danger in his words. She needed to be able to hear them and remain unfeeling. She needed to be able to touch him, to be
with
him, and remain detached. Anything that warmed her heart to its core posed grave peril to her happiness. When she returned to New York, as she someday must, she didn't want to leave part of herself with Zachariah Garrett.

"I'm fine, Constable. Better than fine. I've been taking care of myself for years. I'm accustomed to it."

"Wouldn't it be nice, though, to relinquish power for a day or two? A week, maybe. Let someone else steer while you enjoy the scenery?" His gaze, sleepy and endearing, pledged that and much more.

What could she say in answer to that? Depending upon him enough to surrender control for even a moment went far beyond Savannah's expectations of a relationship.

The breeze sneaked inside the open throat of her dress, drying the moisture on her skin. From the campsite, she heard her name being called. Then his. Time was running short, when she wanted the rest of the night to talk with him, to kiss him and feel his body pressed against hers.

To have him roll her to her back like he'd promised while she whispered big words in his ear, as she'd promised.

To wake up with the sun and start all over again.

Attraction
. She believed that's what Zach had called it earlier. Attraction. Warm and indescribable...
teasing
, if she had to choose a simple word.
Mesmerizing
, if she chose big one. His regard made her feel light as a feather, adrift on his prescribed cloud of bliss. My, what would the rest of it—the prone positions and the bedroom, the tangle of limbs she had read about—make her feel if his gaze held the power to scald to such an astonishing degree?

"Tomorrow," he said, pulling her to a sitting position and taking her hair in his hands. He combed his fingers through it, once, twice, as tremors of awareness danced along her spine. Grains of sand filtered down the back of her dress, and she shivered.

"When?" She didn't have to ask what he meant or where they would go from here. In her mind, she'd scuttled far past the point of return. Wasn't it past time for her body to catch up? "Where?"

"Noah and Ellie are returning to South Carolina day after next. They're taking Rory for dinner and ice cream tomorrow evening. After five, my night is free."

She smiled. "My last class is over at four-thirty." Caroline's reading lesson.

Bracing his hand on the dune, he leaned in and kissed the base of her neck. She swallowed hard, bright bursts of light scattering her vision. "The coach house above the school. I'll meet you there. Five o'clock. Four forty-five if I can make it. It's empty, and the door is unlocked."

Moaning softly when he took her earlobe between his teeth, she leaned into him, as pliable as runny clay.

"They're looking," he said gruffly, his arm snaking around her waist and pulling her into him, "and I don't want them to find us."

A second later, they scrambled apart as Caleb called their names from the other side of the dune. Zach slipped his hand over her mouth and gestured for silence. Grinning, she licked his palm, then bit down on the pad of one finger.

His gaze narrowed; he moved forward slightly. She could see his focus draining away like water from a leaky can. "Tomorrow, I'll make you pay for that," she thought he whispered.

She couldn't wait.

Chapter 7

Tell almost the whole story
.

~Anne Sexton

Dropping her bicycle by the garden gate, Savannah raced into Elle's school the next afternoon and slammed the door before anyone had a chance to see her. Ripping the veil from her head, she went to stand before the oval mirror hanging in the washroom.

Saints' blood, was this a curse for her egotism? The price to pay for feeling beautiful for the first time in her life?

She brushed her fingers over her swollen cheeks and dabbed at the blister on the end of her nose. A tear trickled down her face, then another, the salt in them bringing pain and more tears.

Naturally.

Undeniably, hers was the most hideous case of sunburn ever seen in Pilot Isle. As Constable Garrett prepared to meet her in less than two hours, here she stood, covered in blisters and a flaming crimson stain. She gripped the washstand, praying the chills were part of this mess and not additional punishment for considering intimate relations with a man outside of marriage.

She bowed her head as a shiver rolled through her, weakening her knees and making her wish she had worn her bonnet on the beach as Zach had advsied.
I'm fine, Constable
,
play daddy for someone who needs it
.

Oh Lord, what would he say when he got a good look at her face?
I told you so
, more than likely.

She shook her head. As wretched as she felt, his censure would be enough to send her over the edge into complete and utter misery. She straightened, a method of deliverance popping into her mind. She would send a message through Caroline when she came for her class. An innocent lie about a forgotten meeting with Lydia.

That would work.

From Rory to the life-saving crew to daily complaints from every person in town, Zachariah Garrett had a thousand ways to fill his time. He probably wouldn't care one way or the other if she canceled their rendezvous. As another wave of agony hit her, she convinced herself that any excitement about this afternoon had been hers and hers alone.

* * *

Zach looked at his watch for the fifth time in an hour, wondering why days you wanted to pass in a blink never did. He'd swept the floor. Twice. Plumped the pillows on the cot, checked the sheets to make sure they were clean, and changed the daisies in his mother's vase. End of the month meant payroll time; the jail was certain to have a rowdy visitor or two any day now.

The cargo records were as up-to-date as he could make them and not go stark-raving mad. The breech buoys were in good shape, and everyone on this evening's patrol had been accounted for.

Slipping his watch free, he let the second hand complete a full circle before returning it to the small pocket at his waist. Twenty minutes and he could lock up the place, leave the key with Christabel in case of an emergency, and hightail it to the coach house. Dropping into his chair, he propped his feet on his desk, imagining what his sassy Irish belle might be wearing—or not wearing—when he arrived.