What the Waves Bring Read online

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  Table of Contents

  Copyright Notice

  Author note

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  Excerpt Page

  Also by Barbara Delinsky

  About the Author

  WHAT THE WAVES BRING

  Barbara Delinsky

  Dear Reader,

  I’m a woman with a past-namely, a group of novels that have been lost for nearly twenty years. I wrote them under pseudonyms at the start of my career, at which time they were published as romances. In the years since, my writing has changed, and these novels went into storage, but here they are now, and I’m thrilled. I loved reading romance; I loved writing romance. Rereading these books now, I see the germs of my current work in character development and plot. Being romances, they’re also very steamy.

  Initially, I had planned to edit each to align them with my current writing style, but a funny thing happened on the way to that goal. Totally engrossed, I read through each one, red pencil in hand, without making a mark! As a result, what you have here is the original in its sweet, fun, sexy entirety.

  What the Waves Bring is set in Nantucket, which, though I’ve never been there, has always been on my radar screen. I lived there vicariously during the writing of this book-still remember the map of the island that I had tacked up in my office. The Jared Coffin House is still there, still going strong, as is the Downyflake Restaurant, though it changed location after a fire in 1991. As for the North Atlantic shoreline and hurricanes, I had enough personal experience with each to write those scenes without help.

  When this book was first published in 1983, its title was Lover from the Sea. What I adored about it was the wildness of the romance between a handsome, take-charge stranger and a heroine who more than holds her own. Oh yes, Tylenol is more often used today in place of aspirin, and the Strategic Arms Limitation Talks (SALT) is history. Moreover, poor April Wilde has a computer, but no Google, which hadn’t been born! Still, the emotions playing out in What the Waves Bring are as true today as they were back then.

  Enjoy!

  Barbara

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Previously published as Lover from the Sea

  WHAT THE WAVES BRING. Copyright © 1983 by Barbara Delinsky.

  Excerpt from Sweet Salt Air copyright © 2012 by Barbara Delinsky.

  Cover art © Jack Flash/Getty Images

  All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  eISBN: 9781250019110

  First eBook Edition: July 2012

  CHAPTER ONE

  He came with the rain from the sea on a stormy Nantucket morning. It was his boat, or what remained of it, that first caught her eye—a long fragment of splintered wood, a jagged needle of white in an endless gray tempest of angrily churning saltwater. His head was no more than a black stain on the wood, his arms dark bands on either side, and she stared for long, disbelieving moments at the sea-tossed voyager before realizing that it was indeed a man.

  Her racing pulse accompanied the driving rain as it beat its wrath against the windowpanes surrounding her. Her soft brown-eyed gaze widened to train itself on the distant figure approaching the beach with the belligerent rush of the tide. Horror-struck, she watched the piece of debris as it ricocheted amid the waves in their violent race toward the shore.

  Ducking out of the rooftop cupola, she clattered down narrow wooden steps that creaked in tune with the static-riddled voice of the small transistor in her shaking hand. “Hurricane Ivan at last shows signs of turning out to sea.” It offered little solace. Tearing to the closet, she stepped into her boots and threw a heavy yellow slicker over her slender shoulders. “True to its name,” the voice continued, “Ivan the Terrible has wreaked havoc along much of the eastern seaboard of the United States, inching its way northward with terror in its path, destruction in its wake.” The radio went dead beneath the summary flick of her thumb as she tossed the box onto a sofa, hoisted the full hood up and over her thick mahogany mane and reached for the front doorknob.

  Only then, as she emerged from dryness and warmth, did the full impact of the storm, stirred to gale force mere hours before, hit her. The wind pounded her slim body, fighting her at every step as she burst into a run down the gentle incline toward the sea. The rain formed sheet after sheet of fluid barrier through which she broke determinedly. The sandy path, once benign, was now a begrudging ribbon of mud sucking greedily at the heavy rubber of her boots, making a mockery of her attempt at speed.

  Head down, she pushed on, her body piercing the torrents at a forward tilt as she worked her way along the beachfront toward the point where she had last seen the man. How often had she imagined the drama of rescues in the glory days of the whaling ships of Nantucket—but there was nothing remotely romantic about the life-and-death reality in which she now unexpectedly found herself.

  Squinting through glistening lashes, she scanned the beach, still empty, then the water, similarly so. Had he gone under? Was he lost so close to safety? No. There! Riding a wave, suffering beneath another. The pitiful piece of fractured wood, the dark head. One swell, then another, each bringing him closer. Until, at last, with ragged release, the drenched body washed up on the shore not ten feet from her.

  Compassion surged through her as she closed the distance in an instant, throwing herself down beside the gasping figure now prone on the wet sand. With a grunt, she levered the rock-hard form onto its back, then up to rest in a half-sitting position against her own body.

  His eyes were closed, his skin an ashen-blue tone. Only the fierce shiver of his body and the raspy pant of his breath spoke of the life that miraculously remained. Directed by pure instinct, she spoke aloud and with a trace of triumph as she struggled to get the man to his feet.

  “All right, whoever you are, you are alive and I intend to keep you that way.” His weight set her momentarily back. “But you’ll have to help me.” His eyes barely flickered with the awareness that she spoke, yet when she went to lift him again, she sensed a momentum on his part, without which the job would have been futile. He was a tall man, an immovable obstacle should he go totally limp.

  “That’s it,” she said through gritted teeth, shifting behind to lift him farther. “That’s it. Easy does it. On your feet. You’ve come this far. Just a little farther.” His breathing was ragged as she snaked his long arm around her shoulders and slid her own across his back, her fingers barely reaching his ribcage. “Come on, come on,” she urged softly. “We’re going to walk just a little way. That’s it.” His feet were leaden weights beside her own, yet they managed to move slowly in the direction toward which she propelled him.

  Her eye scoured the beach in search for the help she knew was not there. “My car,” she cried with growing urgency. “We’ll get to my car. I can drive you into town to the doctor.” Talking seemed one way to keep him aware and moving, her major objective at the moment. His bulk was large, further weighted down by his sodden
clothing, and the storm persisted with maddening rage about them, bent on thwarting their efforts to reach the high ground.

  But April Wilde was a woman of determination. Her bone-white fingers dug into the soaked fabric of his clothing as she braced his sagging body with her own and plodded on. It seemed an eternity of agonized trudging before the house materialized in her rain-whipped gaze. Her hair, having escaped from its cover in the turmoil, streamed down her face in soggy strands. She ignored it purposefully.

  Her dark blue Volvo wagon, parked in front of the house, was a metal island rising from the gritty swamp. “Almost there,” she shouted. “You’ll wait in the car while I get the keys. Then we’ll be in town in no time!”

  Even as she said it, she questioned the realism of her goal. Visibility was practically nonexistent, as was the paving on the roads of this southeastern coast of the island. But she had to try—there was no choice.

  The stranger’s body slumped against the car as she opened the door on the passenger’s side. Exhausted from the trek, she called up what meager strength was left to ease the cold form into the seat where, as though on cue, he lapsed into unconsciousness. With a slam of the door, she raced back to the house, leaving a trail of water from hallway to kitchen, where her car keys lay, and back.

  Trepidation filled her as she slid behind the wheel and glanced at her passenger. He was still, so very still. Should she search for a pulse? As she shook her head in dismissal of the time-wasting notion, her impatient fingers tucked the wet hair behind her ears, then put the key in the ignition, started the engine and flipped the gear into reverse. The sound of tires spinning was barely audible above the storm, but the lack of movement in response to her foot on the gas told the story eloquently.

  Her reaction was not quite as eloquent. “Damn it!” she swore beneath her breath, flipping into drive, going nowhere, then back into reverse with the same dismal result. “Damn it! Not now, fool car! Move!” From drive to reverse to drive again, April rocked the car, feeling herself and her vehicle sink deeper into the mud with every whir of the tires.

  What of her shipwrecked passenger now? A more poignant oath escaped her lips as she made the quick decision—the only decision. Springing from the car, she circled to his side, swung open the door, and leaned in, slapping the pale, cold cheek of the tall figure. She bent to struggle with his legs until they were, once more, free of the car.

  “Here we go again,” she humored herself. “Hold on, damn it. We’re going into the house.” Again, she slapped his cheek firmly. “Wake up! I need your help!” A faint stirring of his body brought a sigh of relief from her trembling lips. Buoyed by firm resolve, she slid her arms around the wet form and hoisted him, with all her strength, from the car. Moments later, by what miracle she didn’t know, the two were inside the house with the door shut against the storm.

  Calling on her intuitive reserve, she led him—half-dragged him—, through the living room to the small room at the back that she had designated as her bedroom. Her murmur was weak as she looked frantically around. “I’ll have to take off those wet things. You’ve got to get warmed.” Repeating the thoughts aloud over and over again, she eased the man down into the large rattan chair in the corner. “No sense getting the bed wet before I can get you into it.” Her explanations may or may not have been heard or understood, yet she persisted, verbalizing her rationalizations at every step of the way.

  The zipper of his drenched nylon Windbreaker gave way only with a struggle. Levering him forward, she peeled it from him, then went to work on the equally wet fabric of his cotton shirt and, finally, the dark turtleneck jersey that clung stubbornly to his skin. The shirt shifted the dark hair on his forehead back as she removed it and revealed a gash at his temple, open but no longer bleeding.

  “My God,” she moaned softly. “I’m no doctor. What do I do?” Fast on the heels of a brief moment of panic came a resurgence of her common sense. Resting the limp form against the chair, she dropped her own slicker and ran for the bathroom, returning with an armload of soft, warm towels, one of which she wrapped around the stranger’s bare chest as she pulled him against her once more. “To bed, whoever you are. I can’t do anything more here.”

  Again, it was as though some small part of him heard, for his legs moved slightly as she lugged him across the short distance to deposit him on the edge of the bed, his long legs left dangling over the side. The laces of his canvas deck shoes resisted her chilled fingers, but yielded at last to her tugs. Shoes and socks fell to the floor before she contemplated the next step. Again, there was little choice. She had come this far; it was obvious that the man needed to be dry—completely dry.

  “Sorry about this, pal,” she babbled uncomfortably, as she forced her hands to the buckle of his belt. “It’s not that I make a habit of undressing men …” The snap was released, the zipper lowered. “In fact, I’m not …” She tugged at the heavy denim. “ … overly …” She struggled past his hips. “ … skilled at … this type of thing.” With awkward tugs, the jeans fell to the floor. April took a deep breath. “I hope you’re not terribly modest.” Fighting a wave of her own self-consciousness, she divested him of the last of his underclothes, then quickly lifted his legs to shove them beneath the covers, which she promptly drew to his chin. “Smart girl,” she murmured in self-encouragement, stooping to flip on the electric blanket. “He’ll be warm in a jiffy.”

  Propping herself on the edge of the bed, she roughly rubbed the chest and arms of the inert form, willing circulation back into the bone-soaked limbs and torso as the heat of the blanket began its slow rise. Her eye scanned the room behind her for an instant, coming to rest with a flurry of interest on the old pine chest beneath the windowsill. Trembling hands withdrew a heavy quilt and spread it over the long body. Only then, with the knowledge that she had done whatever she could to make him warm, did her heartbeat begin to slow to a more normal level.

  With another dry towel in hand, she moved closer to the dark head that lay, still and pale, on her pillow. Her fingers were gentle as she raised it, slid the towel beneath it, then began a soft rubbing of his wet hair. Even with the worst of the moisture removed, it was uncompromisingly black, increasingly thick as the warmth of the house dried it further. With a corner of the towel, she dabbed at his face, still pale but less blue than it had been. His beard showed a shadow of growth, though the even trim of his short sideburns spoke of a man careful in his grooming. His eyes were deep-set, capped by dark brows and long, thick black lashes. Her terry fabric traced the angled line of his cheekbone and jaw, sensing the strength that this mysterious visitor held. When a dark red line of blood appeared on the gash at his temple, she brought a damp washcloth from the bathroom, and blotted it gently. Other than this gash and a slowly darkening bruise high on his cheek, there seemed no other obvious injury. For that she was grateful. If she was to harbor this man until she could find help, or vice versa, she prayed for no complications.

  Then the thought registered. Tucking the covers more tightly around the unmoving form, she tossed the towels onto a chair and headed for the living room. If she couldn’t get to town herself, surely someone in town might get to her in this emergency. The local directory provided a number; filled with new hope, she lifted the phone’s receiver. There was no dial tone. Impatiently, she jabbed at the disconnect button. Nothing. Dead. The phones were dead! Frantically, she turned toward her Apple, her major link to the outside world from which she had been in self-imposed exile these past few weeks. But the machine, she reminded herself, communicated through the phone jack just behind it—dead as well. Even her faithful companion, her personal computer, had now denied her its vital link to America! Discouraged, she turned away.

  Tired feet squished their way back to the bedroom, their noise reminding her of her own sodden state. Within minutes, dry clothes lay across her arms and, with a brief glance at the quiet form on the bed, she hastened to the bathroom to administer to her own chill.

  The sight t
hat met her in the mirror shook her. “Lord help me, if he wakes up now he’ll wish he hadn’t!” Her hair was matted in straggles, her face pale, her eyes hollow pools of chocolate. Within minutes, fresh water warmed her cheeks and a brush worked its way through her tangles. Her damp clothes hit the hamper, replaced by dry jeans and a shirt. A second glance in the mirror was more rewarding. The brush had returned a chestnut gleam to her long tresses, and the warmth of the water and clothes had heightened the color on her cheeks. That the day had strained her, her eyes could not deny. Yet gold sparks flickered once more amid the brown, a sign of marginal refreshment.

  Her satisfaction was short-lived, however, as an agonized groan brought her on the run. Pulling her heavy woolen sweater into place, she returned to the bed. The man within had rolled onto his side; his shivering was evident even through the thick covering layered about him. Sitting quickly, she resumed her rigorous massage, rubbing his back and arms, then moving to will warmth to his legs. His eyes remained shut, his face half-buried in the pillow.

  “You’ll be fine,” she murmured to herself, as much as to him. “It’s warm here now. Please feel it …” The words fell victim to her work as she put all concentration into the rubdown her hands mechanically maintained. When he moaned again, she moved closer. “Can you hear me?” she begged softly, soothing the dark swath of hair from his temple, relieved to see that the gash there had begun to crust. “Are you awake?”

  No answer met her plea. Her hand was warm against his cheek, and she felt his returning warmth with gratitude. Gently, her fingers slid down the column of his neck to the blanket edge, sliding beneath to rest lightly on the reassuring warmth of his chest. That he was strong of build was no surprise to her, considering the reserve of strength he must have called upon to withstand his ordeal at the hands of a merciless ocean’s fury. That he was also extremely good-looking now became very clear.

  Her soft brown-eyed gaze touched his rugged features, examining them one by one as though to piece together the puzzle of his identity. There were neither scars nor marks, save those from his present trial, and even in his present spent state, the power of the man was evident. His scent, as his skin warmed to a more healthy tone, was clean and male. To her dismay, there was nothing at all offensive at the thought of this total stranger lying in the middle of her own large double bed.