Beyond Reach. Sandra Field
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the hibiscus blooms that bordered the driveway were running together in big red blobs, as red as Raymond Blogden’s face. She stared fiercely out of the side window of the Jeep and felt Troy slow to a halt as they reached the highway. Then his hand touched her bare elbow. ‘Don’t!’ she muttered, and yanked it away.
‘Look at me, Lucy.’
‘No!’
‘Lucy…’ His fingers closed on her shoulder.
She turned to face him, her eyes brimming with fury and unshed tears, her mouth a mutinous line. ‘You’re only the skipper when you’re on the boat,’ she choked. ‘Let go of me!’
If anything, his hold tightened. Lines of tension scoring his cheeks, his gray eyes bleak, he said, ‘I owe you another apology, don’t I? You’ll have to forgive me, I’m—out of touch with the female sex. You did well to get away from him; he’s as nasty a piece of work as I’ve come across in a long time.’
A tear dripped from her lashes to fall on his wrist. ‘I—I was so f-frightened.’
‘Of course you were, and rightly so. That charming little object in your lap is a switchblade.’ As she regarded it with horror, Troy asked, ‘How did you get away from him?’
‘He has a collection of jade in the hallway. I picked two pieces up and told him I’d drop them if he didn’t stay where he was. I g-guess he didn’t believe me. So I dropped one on the floor and it s-smashed. I felt terrible, but I didn’t know what else to do.’ She gave a faint giggle. ‘You should have seen the look on his face. He said he’d paid nine thousand five hundred and forty dollars for it. Once I’d climbed out the window I put the other piece on the sill and ran for my life.’
The look on Troy’s face was one she hadn’t seen before. Admiration had mingled with laughter, and with something else she couldn’t name but that sent a shiver along her nerves. She said fretfully, ‘Let’s get out of here—I want to go back to Seawind.’
Troy checked for traffic and turned left. ‘The supermarket’s going to be an anticlimax after this.’
Knowing her lack of culinary skills, Lucy wasn’t so sure that he was right. Although wrestling with menus would certainly beat wrestling with Raymond Blogden. ‘I need to blow my nose,’ she mumbled.
Troy fumbled in the pocket of his shorts and produced a small wad of tissues. He checked them out, then said, grinning at her, ‘No engine grease—I thing they’re okay.’
It would be a great deal safer to dislike Troy Donovan, Lucy thought, swiping at her wet cheeks then burying her nose in the tissues and blowing hard. When he grinned like that it not only took years off his age, it put his sexual quotient right up there with Robert Redford’s. She blew again, reminding herself that violence was what had put the grin there in the first place. A physical confrontation with another man. She’d do well to remember that.
She put the tissues in her skirt pocket and said, before she could lose her nerve, ‘Thank you for going with me, Troy. I was dreading having to explain the whole situation to the police.’
‘You’re entirely welcome,’ he replied. ‘Haven’t had as much fun in months.’
‘You’d have made a good pirate,’ she snapped.
‘Blondbeard?’ he hazarded.
Smothering a smile, she went on severely, ‘You like violence?’
‘Come on, Lucy—that was a situation straight out of a Walt Disney movie. He was the bad guy, I was the good guy coming to the rescue of the beautiful maiden, and because I was bigger than him and, I flatter myself, in better condition, right triumphed. How often in these days of moral ambiguities do we have the chance to participate in something so straightforward?’
She frowned. ‘You haven’t answered the question, and I don’t think the grin on your face is quite as easily explained as all that.’
‘Of course it’s not,’ he said shortly. ‘Mind your own business.’
So she wasn’t to be told why Troy hadn’t had as much fun in months. And his tone of voice had pushed her away as decisively as if he’d strong-armed her.
Women must be after him in droves, she thought, her lips compressed. So, didn’t he like women? Certainly he hadn’t answered her when she’d asked if he was married or living with someone.
All her warning signals came on alert. Keep your distance. So what if he’s a handsome blond? You know your weakness for them and you’re not going to fall into that trap again. You’re not!
But the sunlight through the windshield was glancing on the blond hair on Troy’s arms, shadowing the hollow in the crook of his elbow where the veins stood out blue, and his fingers gripped the wheel with an unsettling combination of sensitivity and strength. Lucy remembered the speed with which he’d pinioned Raymond Blogden’s arm behind his back, the strength with which he’d almost lifted the other man off the floor.
The knight in shining armor. The villain. And she herself cast as the beautiful maiden.
A hackneyed story. But—she knew from the languorous throb of blood through her veins—a primitive and still powerful story, nevertheless.
She’d better bring her mind back to the menus. She could handle Seawind; she had no fears on that score. But meals for several days for four people, one of them the steel-eyed Troy Donovan? Now that was a challenge.
Not nearly the challenge of keeping her distance from that same steel-eyed Troy Donovan.
An hour later, after paying ten dollars for a driver’s license, and having been given Troy’s account number at the supermarket and strict instructions to drive on the left, Lucy was on her own. All she had to do was get the supplies for tonight’s dinner and come up with ideas for the next few days.
That was all, she thought wryly, standing in front of the meat counter and wishing she’d paid more attention in her grade nine home economics classes. But home economics had taken third place to sailing and the captain of the basketball team: six feet tall, blond and—by the not very demanding standards of a fourteen-year-old— incredibly sexy.
Tom Bentham. Who’d dated her, Lucy, twice and then gone steady for the next two years with petite and pretty Tanya Holiday.
Someone jostled her and Lucy brought her mind back to the present with a bump. She roamed the store, cudgeling her brain for some of her mother’s recipes. Her mother combined a career as a forensic pathologist with a reputation as one of the city’s most elegant hostesses, whereas Lucy’s idea of fun on a Saturday night was a group of friends, a case of beer and pizza ordered from the neighborhood Italian restaurant.
She began putting things in the cart. The couple from New York no doubt had very sophisticated tastes, and Troy, she’d be willing to bet, was on a par with them. A man didn’t acquire the kind of confidence he wore like a second skin by doing nothing but chartering yachts in Tortola. She’d got to impress him. She didn’t think he’d fire her—he needed her too much for that—but he could make life very unpleasant for her if he chose.
Another forty-five minutes had passed before she was lugging the brown paper bags of food on board. Troy, stripped to the waist, his hands coated with grease, had the various components of a pump spread over the table in the cockpit. He gave her a preoccupied nod as she eased past him. ‘I ran the engine while you were gone— so the refrigerator’s cold.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, and disappeared into the cabin as fast as she could. His image had burned into her brain: the dent in his chin, the entrancing hollow of his collarbone, the tangled blond hair on his deep chest. It’s not fair, she thought wildly. No man should look that gorgeous.
Not only gorgeous, but oblivious to his own appeal. Because Troy, she was quite sure, wasn’t trying to impress her with his physique. Troy was merely oiling the pump and