What the Waves Bring Read online

  “I’m sorry …” she whispered at last, blushing and awkward. True, this was her house and, given the condition of this man when last she’d seen him, she’d had every reason to worry. But to brazenly intrude on his privacy … In hasty retreat she backed from the small room and closed its door firmly.

  He stood so tall, she mused, stumbling her way to the kitchen, absently straightening the badly wrinkled clothes in which she’d slept. But of course this was the first time she’d seen him standing of his own accord. Before her own five feet four, his height was impressive, not to mention the electrifying gaze, warming her even in memory.

  Her hands busied themselves with the mindless chore of setting a pot of coffee on to perk, as she reconstructed the image just seen. Standing before the sink, he wore nothing but that towel draped casually across the slimness of his hips. Little had been hidden; yet had she not seen it all yesterday? The difference, she reflected, was in the man himself. Yesterday, he had been helpless; today he was not. While she had slept—and a fast glance at her wrist told her that it was nearly nine-thirty—he had made himself at home, familiarizing himself with her facilities and supplies, even heating the water—her eye spotted the large pot drying face down on the counter by the kitchen sink—that would be necessary for a satisfactory shave, since the hot-water heater was electrically run.

  Thoughts of the storm brought her eye to the large window overlooking the shore. Ivan the Terrible, though perhaps a bit blunted, was nonetheless still in torrential evidence. Little repair work would be accomplished until the rain eased. And that meant another twenty-four hours, minimum, in her present marooned state. What might her now-lucid guest think of that?

  Her gaze shot to the door as the man in question materialized as though on cue. His face, despite its purpled bruise, was smooth and tanned, as healthy-looking as any stand-in Florence Nightingale could desire. His hair still glistened from its dousing in the sink, but it was brushed neatly (thank you, April, for the use of your brush), adding a touch of civility to the figure that had not yet spoken a word.

  As had happened moments earlier in the bathroom, their lines of sight collided and held for long, silent moments. As she awaited his initiative, April sensed a guardedness about him. He seemed to be looking at her, into her, through her—all in one, painfully prolonged stare. Finally he blinked and shook his head imperceptibly, releasing her from his hold.

  “I think,” he spoke for the first time, his voice deep and smooth despite the awkwardness suggested by his sheepish expression, “that I have a problem. I can’t seem … to find my clothes.” His dark eyes fell for an instant to the towel slung low on his hips, then lifted to hers with a silent question.

  “Oh!” April exclaimed, jumping forward with an apologetic smile. “Of course! They’re right in here. I washed them yesterday; they finished drying last night.” Her voice tapered off as she entered the side mud room, reached for the clean clothes, and returned to the kitchen, offering them to their rightful owner.

  Again he held her gaze as he took the clothes, studying her closely with the wariness she’d noted before, yet smiling in return. “Thank you.”

  With an uneasy shrug of the shoulders, she moved back uncertainly. “You’re welcome. Ah,” she turned to lower the light beneath the coffee now perking, “would you like something to eat?”

  “That sounds good.” He stood motionless, following her every step, undaunted by his state of undress.

  Feeling strangely plundered, April nodded as she walked to the refrigerator for the eggs. By the time the carton lay on the counter beside the large cast-iron frying pan atop the stove, her guest had disappeared, presumably to dress. Hopefully to dress, she amended, as a semblance of reason returned to her.

  How stupid! She slammed her fist onto her hip in self-reproach. What of all the questions, that small voice within her demanded, that had plagued her since she’d first found this man? She hadn’t asked a one! What had come over her in this stranger’s presence? Had it been the mesmerizing sight of his body, which was magnificent, to say the least? But she had seen it before! Had it been the intensity of his gaze, so dark and magnetic? Perhaps. How simple it should have been—and how expedient—to ask who he was, where he came from, and how he’d gotten here. She hadn’t even asked him how he was feeling!

  “That’s better.” His deep voice cut through her thoughts, drawing her about-face with a start. Again, she caught her breath. For he was the proverbial swashbuckling hero of days gone by. Clad in the navy turtleneck jersey which showed the muscled breadth of his chest to perfection, and the snug, dark denims, he seemed taller, if possible, and even more powerful than before. In accent to his well-groomed hair and fresh-shaven face, the dark bruise high on his cheekbone lent an air of the rogue about him—not in any way unappealing. It was this very mark of his ordeal that captured her attention.

  “How do you feel?” she asked softly, dragging her eyes from him to remove the eggs from the pan with a large, slotted spatula.

  “Not bad. Somewhat weak in the knees. A little sore.” He stretched his back, flexing its muscles from side to side, as he gave his report. But it was the ending uplift of his tone, its odd expectancy, which drew her eyes back to him. His own gaze was downcast, as long, lean fingers gently prodded the bruise on his cheekbone. His dark brows drawn together, he seemed puzzled. Certainly he had questions of his own to ask, she mused, placing a plate of eggs and buttered toast on the table. As a therapist, it was her style to give her patients freedom to talk at their own speed. Ignoring the small voice that accused her of taking the coward’s way out, she now resorted to that same tack.

  Fixing a plate for herself and two glasses of orange juice, she sat at the table, gesturing for him to do the same. “I’m sorry that it’s not eggs Benedict,” she said, trying humor to relax them both, “but I’m not what you’d call a gourmet cook.” Her words caught his attention as he eased his long frame into the chair. He studied her for long moments before finally surveying the fare.

  His smile was genuine. “This will be fine.”

  As they ate quietly, April cast surreptitious glances his way, occasionally meeting his own gaze before quickly darting away. Her appetite was negligible due to the subtle tension, the air of expectancy that permeated the atmosphere of the room.

  “Looks pretty wet out,” he observed softly. She followed his gaze toward the window, then repeated her thoughts of earlier.

  “Uh-huh. I doubt we’ll be able to get anywhere today—or that anyone will be able to get to us. The wind may have died down a bit, but with the rain continuing like that, the roads will be a total washout for a while yet.”

  “Where are we?”

  It was the first such question he’d asked; April looked up sharply. He had put his fork down, his interrupted appetite the only sign of the inner turmoil he camouflaged admirably. “My house—this house—is on Nantucket Island.”

  He seemed relieved that her answer had been offered so freely. “How did I get here?”

  “I saw you adrift offshore,” she explained, somehow expecting that he would have recalled something of his plight and subsequent rescue. “When the surf deposited you on the sand, I managed to help you to the house.”

  The haze of bewilderment played in his eyes for endless moments of ensuing silence before a mask of calm settled over his features. Looking down once more, he resumed his meal, eating slowly and thoughtfully. April studied him freely, trying to anticipate his thoughts. Strange, she decided, that he was so quiet … .

  Like a slow-burning fuse eking its way toward an inevitable explosion, the tension spiraled about them as the erstwhile mariner continued to eat. It was a psychological standoff, with neither ready to break through to the crux of the matter. When the last of his breakfast had disappeared, he carried his plate to the sink, to her marked bemusement.

  “Coffee?” he called evenly over his shoulder.

  “Please.” She accepted his offer, unsettled, yet oddly pl
eased, by the spontaneous switch in their roles. His courteous gesture, small as it was, showed a sensitivity she admired. If only she could relax! Yet relaxation was a world away. Something in this man’s mien kept her alert. It was as though she were on the verge of being dissected, studied from the inside-out, pieced together bit by bit. Her hand curled about the warmth of the coffee cup as she waited nervously for something to happen. The steady tattoo of the rain against the windowpanes was the only sound to break the silence.

  Why didn’t he introduce himself? Why did he hesitate to ask the myriad of questions that any man in his right mind would have? Was he in his right mind? Gazing up at him through the shadow of her thick brown lashes, she saw a paragon of strength and composure. Only his downcast gaze and the furrows momentarily marring the span of his brow gave credence to his dilemma.

  Shipwrecked on a strange shore—it was an unlikely occurrence for even the most adventurous of contemporary men. What was the train of thought now clattering through his mind? He sipped his coffee with an air of preoccupation, oblivious for the moment of April’s presence. Her own coffee grew cold as her patience expired; finally, she could take the suspense no longer.

  “Who are you?” she burst out, with a vehemence quickly tempered as the words were echoed more softly. “Who are you?”

  As a seasoned therapist, she should have been a model of understanding, of tolerance, of sympathy for all he had endured. But she was no impartial bystander in this case. As the woman who had harbored him through chills and a fever, she needed a straightforward answer to this most pertinent question. His reaction, however, was a portent of puzzlement to come. For long moments after hearing her question, he studied the rim of his coffee cup as though debating, to her astonishment, whether to answer her. Just as April took a breath to ask him again, he raised his head slowly and put forth his words with careful and obvious measure.

  “I thought you might know that.”

  Comprehension eluded her. “W-what?”

  His voice remained steady. “I was hoping you might know my name.”

  “Me?” Incredulously, she stared at him.

  “Then you don’t know who I am?”

  “Of course not!” Something within her snapped. “I’ve never seen you in my life—until you were washed into it yesterday morning!” She studied him closely, perplexed by his apparent confusion. Was he a fugitive? A wanted man? Did he wonder whether she recognized him? Or whether his cover was safe? But he looked so bewildered. Very slowly, realization dawned. “What are you trying to say?” she prodded softly, not taking her eyes from his face for a minute. “Surely you remember …” Her words died in the face of his reluctant but definite headshake.

  “You don’t remember … your … accident?”

  He shook his head once more. “No.”

  “The storm?”

  “Not beyond what I see outside now.”

  She took a deep breath and braced herself. “Your name … ?”

  Now there was pain in his expression, as this last, most crucial, question drew a similarly negative response. No further words were needed.

  “No name … nothing?” She looked down at her entwined hands as she whispered the facts in disbelief. His eyes, searching hers for answers she did not have, countered her incredulity effectively. “My God!” she cried softly, attempting to assimilate this awesome and far-reaching discovery. “It must have been the gash on the head.” She swiveled back. “How is it now?”

  Gingerly, he fingered the finely scabbed slash. “Now that it’s done the damage, it’s fine.” The edge of bitterness in his voice was short-lived. This man, she realized intuitively, was not one to bemoan the fates for long. “Tell me,” he asked, directing his intensity her way, “was there any sort of identification on me when I washed ashore?”

  “I-I don’t think so.”

  “Think hard,” he directed sternly. “Were there any papers in my pockets when you”—he paused to clear his throat, though he didn’t seem to be truly embarrassed—“undressed me?”

  “Nothing.” She faced him determinedly, squelching whatever discomfort she might feel now regarding the custodial liberties she had taken then.

  His dark gaze narrowed. “No rings … a watch … a wallet?”

  Long chestnut tresses slithered about the curve of her shoulders as she shook her head. There had been nothing. Absolutely nothing!

  Her visitor was still dubious. “Are you sure? I must know. Was there anything—anything—on my person … ?”

  “Wait just a minute!” Her head shot up in sudden indignation. “Are you accusing me of filching something of yours?” She was on her feet in an instant, the legs of the chair scraping back across the floor. “Look, whoever you are, I went out in that hurricane yesterday morning and dragged you back here, into my home. Then I took care of you”—the gold flecks in her eyes flared angrily—“and saw to it that you were dry and warm. Are you really accusing me of stealing something that belonged to you?” A harsh laugh, sign of her frustration, grated through the tense air. “I’m not quite sure whether that’s ludicrous first and ungrateful second, or the other way around.” Storming to the sink, she leaned against its stainless steel rim for support. “You might have died if I hadn’t seen you!”

  Her blunt words hung in the air. Even the dark stranger could sense the truth in them. So embroiled was she in curbing her temper that she was unaware of his approach until long fingers circled her arms. His touch was gentle, apologetic.

  “I might have at that,” he murmured softly, “and I’m eternally grateful that you did find me. I’m sorry if I sounded—” His sincerity struck a guilty chord in her.

  “No, I’m sorry,” she interrupted, hanging her head, uncomfortably aware of the hands that continued their comforting hold. “I must be tired. Yesterday was exhausting. I didn’t get much sleep. And now … with this …”

  His long fingers stroked her arms with tender innocence before withdrawing. When she turned around, it was to confront his broad back. The down-tilt of his head suggested his discouragement. “A wallet, jewelry might have been a clue. We’ve got to begin somewhere.”

  At that instant, April’s heart went out to him and his unfathomable dilemma. Wanting to return the comfort he’d offered her moments before, she reached out, raising her hand to the high crest of his sturdy shoulder.

  “There has to be some way of determining your identity. Amnesia is a totally unpredictable ailment. It can be very short-lived; you could regain your memory at any time.”

  “Are you a doctor?” He turned slowly, reading authority into her attempt at encouragement, catching her falling hand and holding it for an instant before releasing it.

  Her lips curved gently. “Not that kind, I’m afraid. I’ve a Ph.D. in counseling,” she explained, relieved that the more volatile issue had been temporarily abandoned. “Look,” she suggested, “why don’t we have more coffee.” Without awaiting a response, she lifted the pot and refilled both their cups. The man had resumed his seat by the time she returned.

  “You look awfully young to be any kind of doctor.” He eyed her speculatively, giving her the chance to answer.

  April had grown quite accustomed to comments about her youthful appearance. Given the ivory-smooth sheen of her skin and the rich luster of her hair, not to mention a figure that was as petite as it was slender, she had had to defend her age often. Her standard response was that she would turn thirty at her next birthday. For a reason she did not pause to evaluate, she answered this stranger differently. “I’m just twenty-nine.”

  A nod of appreciation preceded his voice. “And … your name?” he asked calmly, his eyes dark yet warm on her suddenly flushed face. As he looked at her directly and with quiet intensity, she felt completely female and uncharacteristically shy, doctoral degree notwithstanding.

  “April. April Wilde.”

  “Doctor April Wilde,” he prompted with an endearing grin that sent a shaft of tremored modesty through h
er.

  She cocked her head in humored resignation. “If you must.”

  “Do you live here all year?” His dubious glance toward the window lent silent comment on the weather conditions of Nantucket Island.

  April laughed. “I’m told there aren’t that many hurricanes. This is the first one in years. The weather here is supposedly milder than that on the Massachusetts mainland. And, yes. I’ll be living here year round.”

  “You will be?” He caught the subtlety of her phrasing. “Have you just recently moved here?”

  She nodded. “Last month.”

  “From … ?” he probed, not offensively.

  “New York. The Big Apple. Manhattan, to be more precise.” Her grin faded at the sign of his frown. “Something rings a bell?”

  “No. I don’t think so. New York.” He tested the words on his tongue. “New York.” Again, the headshake. “No. Nothing. Tell me … April,” he said, changing the subject eagerly, “why did you move here?”

  Her shrug was an evasive one. “It seemed a … quiet, peaceful place to work.” Her own words amused her. “That’s funny! Peaceful—hah! The past twenty-four hours have been anything but!”

  Her guest shared the humor briefly before sobering. “Speaking of the storm, are we stranded?”

  April sat back in her chair, finally beginning to relax in his presence. “That’s one word for it. Stranded. Marooned. Deserted. Take your pick. Whichever, we are!”

  “Where is the nearest town?”

  “There’s ’Sconset village, several miles down the road—uh, make that down the rustic, rutted and, most probably, flooded dirt road—and Nantucket itself nine miles on farther.”

  “You have a car—I saw it outside this morning. Any chance of using it?”