Still Waters: The Island / Below the Surface

“How long do you think you’ll be in this area?” she asked him.

“Oh, a while.”

She laughed suddenly. “Do you ever have a direct answer for anything?”

“What do you mean?”

“Okay, how long are you going to be here? A while. A ‘while’ can mean anything. If someone had asked me about this weekend, my reply would be clear and direct. I go home tonight.”

He shrugged, pouring coffee into mugs. “I don’t know how long I’m going to be in the area. When we’re fished out, dived out and done, I’ll head back.”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “Back to Virginia?”

Even then, she thought he hesitated. “Yes.”

“Do you have a house there?”

“Yes. There—is that direct enough?”

“What part?”

“Northern Virginia.”

“Does your city or town have a name?” she demanded.

He came around and handed her a mug. “Whoops, sorry, did you want cream or sugar?”

“Black is fine, thanks. Well?”

“A fairly well known name, yes. Alexandria.”

“There, see, it wasn’t so hard. You have a house, it’s in Virginia, in the city of Alexandria.”

“Do you have a house?” he inquired in turn, perching on the arm of the sofa. Close again. The kind of close that made her wonder why she felt the need to analyze everything. Why not just take a chance? Why care so much about exactly who or what he was?

Just enjoy the simple things in life, she told herself. Everything doesn’t need to last forever. She never just met a man and went with him...anywhere. It seemed that she had never been so emotionally confused before. Last night she had lain awake during all that had been left of the darkness, thinking, tormenting herself. She could...no, no, she couldn’t, sure she could, she shouldn’t, mustn’t...and then, why not? This sense of something hanging in the balance was new to her. This kind of need, this kind of longing... She couldn’t actually even remember ever being spontaneous, simply acting on instinct. And yet she was free and single, over twenty-one, always responsible, dependable...

Surely everyone had a right to a moment’s insanity, to fulfill a fantasy. It was Sunday and she would head home, back to the real world, and most likely thought she would never see him again.

“Hey, are you still with me?” he asked, bemused.

“I, um...yes, of course.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

He arched a brow. “House. Do you have a house?”

“Oh! I have a town house, yes.”

“And that would be where?” he asked.

“Coconut Grove, near the yacht club.”

“Nice.”

“I like it.”

“However—”

“Yes?”

“I’ve heard that Coconut Grove can be a dangerous area.”

“Any populated place can be dangerous. As you said yourself, even sailing the islands can be dangerous. But Miami has a bad rep. People are nice there. It’s like any other city. You’re most likely not going to be hit by a drug lord unless you’re dealing or something like that.” She shook her head suddenly, looking into her coffee cup. “You ask a simple question, and I give you a paragraph. I ask a question and get a one-liner. Maybe I’m the one with the problem.”

She was startled to realize that he didn’t laugh, or even smile, as she had expected he might. He was looking at her very seriously. He reached out and touched her. Light, totally casual. He just touched her chin with the tip of his forefinger. “I don’t think you have a problem at all,” he said very softly.

There it was. The moment when she was supposed to stand and say, “I have to go.”

But she didn’t. He eased down from the arm of the sofa, next to her, his scent a mixture of the wind, sea and salt, his flesh still reflecting the heat of the sun, emitting power from every pore, and she didn’t move. She waited.

His sunglasses were gone, and his eyes seemed as dark as ebony, as mysterious as an abyss, and he was studying her, long and intently. Once again she thought it was time to back away, because then he would rise, as well, and the moment would be broken.

But she didn’t move, and his fingers slipped into her hair, cradling the base of her skull. Then, at last, his lips touched hers. At first it seemed like nothing more than a hot and teasing whisper of air; then the fullness of his mouth pressed over hers. She wasn’t avoiding, wasn’t protesting; she was set adrift in a sea of fascination and discovery, her arms rising, hands resting on his shoulders, fingertips awakened by the simple feel of skin. He kissed her hard and deep, and she felt an infusion of warmth and arousal.

It was he who broke the kiss, easing away, and his voice was definitely husky when he spoke. “I think you’re supposed to tell me that you need to get back.”

She nodded. “You should be telling me that this isn’t your boat.”

He nodded in response. “We should go.”

“Certainly. Now.”

“Remember, I told you that you should be afraid of me.”

She shook her head, studying his eyes. “I should be. But I’m not. I mean, I am. But I’m not.”

“Tell me to take you back,” he said.

She shook her head slowly. “I guess I’m just not afraid enough.”

“Still...we need to...not...”

“You’re right.”

But neither moved, and when he kissed her again, she let her fingers play down the length of his back, and she felt his hands on her. Then, he broke away again, his voice extremely deep as he said, “I really should take you back.”