Thunder On The Reef

‘Yes, because he’s good,’ Macy had said flatly. ‘He’s not rich by your standards, perhaps, but he will be one day. He wants to travel.’ Her eyes shone. ‘He wants to bring the forgotten places of the world to life—remind us all what we have to treasure, before we throw it all away...’

‘My dear child.’ Sir Edwin had looked pained. ‘Where did you meet this—er—freelance?’

‘At an exhibition.’ Her smile had almost hugged itself. ‘I stood back to get a better look at some pictures and trod on his foot. I thought I’d done permanent damage.’

She giggled, remembering her conscience stricken apologies.

‘Have I hurt you?’

‘Mortally.’ His face was solemn. ‘But if you had supper with me tonight, it might ease my final hours...’

‘Indeed—’ Her father’s unwontedly grave voice had brought her back to reality. ‘I see that I should have insisted on your accompanying me to the States. Then this unfortunate accident might have been prevented.’

Macy had laughed out loud. ‘But I didn’t want to avoid it,’ she’d objected. ‘I’m in love with Ross. We’re going to be married.’

After a moment, he said, ‘Don’t be silly, my pet. You only met him—what?—a fortnight ago. You hardly know him.’

Macy bit her lip. ‘Daddy, I know him better than I’ve ever known anyone in my life.’ Even you, she thought, but did not say it.

She’d never heard her father’s voice so harsh before. ‘Are you saying you’ve been intimate with this man?’

She knew what he meant, of course, but the use of the word in that context puzzled her. Yes, she’d been intimate with Ross, but in so many ways that had nothing to do with the wild, sweet, crazy passion they’d discovered together on the narrow, hard bed in his flat.

Because, to her, intimacy was also cooking meals together in the impossibly cramped kitchenette, sharing a shower, and the small piece of soap that they kept dropping, seeing Ross shave for the first time, or even watching him read, her own book forgotten, as she scanned, with mounting excitement the strongly moulded contours of his face, until he looked up, alerted in turn by her prolonged scrutiny...

‘Macy.’ Sir Edwin took hold of her by the shoulders, shook her. ‘Answer me.’

She pulled free and stepped back, startled by the sudden grey look in his face.

‘Yes, he’s my lover,’ she said quietly. ‘And he’s going to be my husband.’

‘My God,’ her father whispered. ‘Have you no shame? Is this all your upbringing—your education has taught you? To jump into bed at the first opportunity with some nobody—some ne’er do well?’

‘You’ve no right to say that,’ she flared back at him.

‘Very well, then. Who are his family? What is his background? These are questions any father is entitled to ask.’

‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘I suggest you ask him yourself.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Sir Edwin said grimly. ‘I shall.’

And even after that, I still hoped they might find some common ground for my sake, Macy thought now, pushing herself away from the door, and treading wearily across the living area to her bedroom. Instead, it had been a total disaster from beginning to end.

Because her father had been quite right. Ross was a stranger to her. She’d never really known him at all. And he was still an enigma even now, she thought, shivering, as she put on the lamp beside her bed.

Across the room, reflected in the long mirror, she saw again the image of a girl, dressed in white, pale-faced, her eyes wide with strain, her mouth bruised and swollen from a kiss. A stranger’s kiss...

Then, and only then, she burst into tears.

* * *

The bed was wide and cool, with the crisp fragrance of fresh linen. It was too warm for a quilt, or other form of covering, so she lay, naked, in the languid night air, staring into the shadows, waiting for him.

He was smiling when he came to her, easing himself on to the mattress beside her with a sigh of contentment and anticipation.

‘My love. My sweet love.’

The whispered words, signalling the commencement of their private, erotic ritual.

His hand touched her breast, cupping its scented warmth, while his fingers circled the rosy nipple, making her catch her breath in instant need.

He knew exactly what he was doing. He’d always known—from that first, overwhelming time together—as if his instincts matched hers, making the desires and yearnings of their bodies identical.

She lifted her hands to his face, running her fingers pleasurably along the faint and familiar roughness of his jawline, drawing his mouth down to hers.

Lips parted, they teased each other with the tips of their tongues, brushing, caressing, retreating, enjoying the excitement of passion deliberately held in abeyance.

She slid her hands to his shoulders, and down the length of his back, relishing the strength of bone, the play of muscle under her fingertips, making him groan softly in pleasure.

Sometimes the delight of touch, the warm liquid exploration of hands and mouths contented them for half an hour or more, but this time it would not be like that, she knew.

She could feel the urgency building in him, like an underground spring, forcing its way to the surface. She moved against him, brushing her nipples with his, kissing the hollow of his throat where the pulse raged, running her fingers through the damp chest hair, then down over his flat belly to the narrow male loins.

They came together, fitted together so harmoniously, that it seemed as if their bodies had been created for no other purpose. As if, indeed, they were each the perfect half of the other.

They rose and sank together in the moist, heated rhythms and patterns of their lovemaking, each movement revealing some new discovery, some uncharted plateau of delight to be explored.

She heard herself say his name, her voice blurred and drowsy with passion, her arms tightening to draw him even nearer, hold him within her, so that he would be absorbed into her very being at the moment of fulfilment.

But her arms closed on nothing, and no one. A scream rose in her throat, and her weighted eyelids flew open as her gaze frantically raked the moonlit room, and the stark emptiness of the bed beside her.

For a moment, she lay still, letting the frantic thud of her heart against her ribcage subside a little. Then she sat up slowly, pushing back her damp cloud of hair from her face, shivering a little as she disentangled the sheet from her sweat-slicked body.

A dream, she thought, swallowing. Another dream. That was all it was. But, oh, God, it was so vivid—so real. But then, they always were.

She drew her knees up to her chin, and sat for a while. Then she left the bed, and went into the shower, adjusting the controls so that tepid water cascaded over her head and down the whole length of her body, drenching her, cleansing her. Washing the demons away.

She wrapped herself in a bath sheet, hitching it up, sarong-style, then padded into the living area. She chose a can of fruit juice from the selection in the tiny refrigerated bar, and carried it out on to the terrace. She snapped the ring pull, and emptied a long, grateful mouthful of the cold juice down her dry throat.

The can was icy, pearled with moisture from the fridge, and she rested it against her forehead for a moment, letting its coolness counteract the aching heat above her eyes.

The moon swung above her like a great benign face. The air was like a warm blanket, carrying the scent of a thousand flowers, and she breathed it deeply, leaning back on the rattan lounger, listening to the distant play of the ocean on the beach.

She knew, of course, that it was impossible to control one’s dreams, but for all that she was bitterly ashamed of the sensual labyrinth her subconscious had drawn her into once more.

Particularly so when she’d just cried herself to sleep.

After Ross had left her, she’d been tormented for months with dreams like that—sensuous, arousing dreams, carrying her to the edge of consummation, then abandoning her there, solitary and sterile.