Night, Sea, And Stars, Page 2

  “We made it,” he murmured thickly, his features tense with the abrupt return of memory. “We made it…” he repeated.

  Skye watched with a certain annoyance as he began to pace the bleached white sand. She started when his sharp gaze came to rest once more upon her and he barked, “How long was I out?”

  Taken aback by his crisp demand, Skye fumbled for an answer. “I—I’m not sure—”

  “An estimation,” he snapped impatiently. “An hour? Ten minutes? Ten seconds, what?”

  “About ten minutes,” Skye replied acidly, her eyes narrowing with anger. Damn, he was hostile!

  He started walking the beach again. “I am a pilot,” he murmured with a wondering pride that deeply rankled Skye. He was acting as if he had just performed at an air show when he had brought them to this desolation.

  Hardly cruel by nature, but caught at the limits of her patience, she plunged in with a dry, “That is debatable.”

  Now his gaze seemed to slice cleanly through her. "I must be a halfway decent pilot, lady, or else that spot of sand where your pretty little derriere rests would be your final resting place.”

  Blood suffused Skye’s face hotly and new anger washed through her, but she refrained from a reply. It had been hitting well below the belt to hint that he was responsible for the crash, and he was probably right. Thinking back to those few terrible moments when she realized they had lost power—before mercifully blacking out— Skye bit into her lip. She was well aware—despite her limited knowledge of aeronautics—that the landing on the tiny island had been a tricky maneuver indeed, combining incredible luck with incredible skill. A hair in too far and the trees would have caused an explosion before impact, but the flying had been just right, the high grass clearing had buffered the descent of the craft before its landing on the sand.

  Several moments passed with no exchanges between the two. The frosty-eyed pilot sank to the very log that had caused his injury, resting his elbows on his knees, his head in cupped hands. Skye lifted her own vision from the ground to the sky, alarmed to note that the brilliance of the after-rain daylight was fading.

  At best they had another three hours of any kind of daylight left at all.

  She glanced back to her companion. He was still contemplating the sand in deep thought.

  “What happened?” she suddenly demanded, her own voice startling her as it slashed through the air. Aware that her panic, rising again like a ghost within her soul, was putting a high, ragged edge on her tone, she cleared her voice and started over more softly. “What happened?”

  She finally had his attention. The frosty green eyes met hers with sheer annoyance. “What happened? We made an emergency landing. The plane exploded. If you want further specifics, we were caught between cross currents and a freak wind storm. Then the hydraulic system failed. I was lucky to grind out the landing gear manually.” His gaze flashed with a sizzle of contempt. “After that you tripped on those stinking heels, cost us time, and became a wise ass to boot.”

  Totally irritated, Skye wished she could shake him, scream at him like a banshee. Recognizing the futility of such an action—and seriously doubting that she was capable of shaking him—she ground her teeth together and opted for renewing a line of questioning, as calmly as possible.

  “Did you radio an SOS?”

  “No,” he replied with a rueful twist of a brow. “I wasn't able to. Static was clogging the air waves.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Skye murmured with dismay. She closed her eyes tightly against a rush of fear. “Surely someone will come anyway. When the flight doesn’t arrive…”

  He shrugged again, and a new silence sprang up between them. Skye watched him, amazed that he merely sat upon the log and stared dismally in the direction of the wreckage.

  “Don’t do this to me!” she suddenly exploded.

  His glance swung to her with surprise and he suddenly laughed with true amusement. She was startled to see just how attractive his eyes could be when lit with the warmth of humor.

  “Do what to you?” he inquired.

  “Just sit there, as if you were still out cold, when night is falling!”

  His brows rose with mockingly polite inquiry. “I take it I’m supposed to be doing something?”

  “Of course!” Skye sputtered.

  He smiled, very lazily, and leaned back on the log and crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t let me stop you.”

  It was Skye’s turn to cross-query irritably. “Stop me from what?”

  “From whatever it is you think I should be doing.”

  Skye stared at him, at first stunned, and then so mad she was ready to throw handfuls of sand into his absurdly smug face.

  “I’d watch that temper, if I were you,” he warned with amusement as he watched her hands ball into fists at her side. “Just like a woman.” There was a touch of real disgust in his tone. “Stands in a boardroom and proclaims herself the equal or superior of any man. Then get her on an island and Miss Macho is back to thinking the man should be doing it all.”

  Skye rose then, rage constricting her throat. “Listen!” she snapped heatedly. “It’s certainly plain as hell that you’re not fond of the female gender. In a boardroom or beyond. But frankly you have no right to take it out on me. All I ever did to you was make the mistake of bringing you back to consciousness. I’ll find my own little spot on the island and happily relieve you of any and all masculine responsibility. Just be so kind, should you be discovered, to mention the fact that there is someone else stranded on the island! Surely, that wouldn’t be bending too far!”

  In her hurry to get away before frustrated tears fell, Skye forgot all about her ankle. Consequently, she managed only one step before tripping and landing ignominiously back into the sand.

  The air was suddenly filled with honest laughter, and before she could gather herself back to her feet, he was beside her, helping her up despite her furiously flailing protests.

  “Hey!” He chuckled. “Calm down!”

  Skye continued to struggle against him, but her only accomplishment was to find herself gathered to his chest, held imprisoned by seemingly ironclad arms. The tip of her head just reached his chin and she found herself staring into long collarbones—as bronze as his face and fringed by the curling hint of a mat of burnished copper chest hair. Apparently he had seen fit to make himself comfortable when flying. He wore no tie and the first two buttons of the white shirt he wore beneath his blazer were open.

  “I’m sorry, really sorry,” he soothed as the fire drained out of her and she went limp in his hold. What would she have done if he had let her go anyway, she wondered bleakly. Would her survival have been a simple matter of common sense?

  She felt his hand rubbing the back of her neck—an automatic gesture, one he had performed perhaps countless times before for countless women. “It’s just that you were sitting there shrilling like a harpy and I’m not any happier about our situation than you are.”

  “I never shrill like a harpy!” Skye announced crisply, finally managing to push herself away from his chest and retain her dignity. His touch had been soothing, she thought fleetingly, but she wanted no part of it or him. For a very weak moment she thought it would have been nice to admit herself the weaker sex, beg his mercy, and rest the entire burden of the nightmare on his ample shoulders. No, no, never with such a cynic! Nor was she weak… nor had she ever felt the overwhelming urge to cling before.

  “All right, Kyle—”

  “How do you know my name?” he demanded sharply, eyes narrowing with a curious and instant suspicion.

  "No great mystery, Sherlock,” Skye murmured dryly. She indicated the gold wings attached to the pocket of his blazer which had scraped her cheek lightly in her struggle. “I do know how to read.” She couldn’t resist the temptation to feign bland feminine innocence.

  He grimaced as he glanced down to the wings and back to Skye. “So you do.”

  His tone wasn’t harsh. It was almost teasing.
It was curious, Skye thought, that he should be so suspicious over her knowledge of his name. She shrugged away the thought. His entire manner was curious—one minute he was treating her as gently as a child, the next as if she were Mata Hari. She really wasn’t much concerned with the problems of his past life—she wasn’t concerned with him at all, except that they were definitely in a mess.

  “Well,” he murmured, abruptly tapping her chin with a sudden return to good humor. “Let’s see what we’ve got.” He began to comb through his pockets, producing a pocket knife, assorted change from assorted countries, a disposable lighter, and a pack of Marlboros. He idly wandered back to the log to take a seat, pensively lighting up a cigarette. He watched as the smoke drifted away, then shifted his gaze to the cigarette package in his hand. “It’s going to hurt when these run out,” he said with a little-boy desolation that made Skye ready to laugh despite all else. The sound of her laughter seemed to re-alert him to her presence and he offered her the pack. “Sorry, I guess you’re not stranded with Sir Gahhad."

  Skye pursed her lips and shook her head. “No, thanks, you’ll be glad to hear that I don’t smoke. And I probably shouldn’t tell you this—you were so nasty over my bag as well as other things—but I’ve got a carton of some type of English cigarettes in it.”

  “You just said you didn’t smoke.”

  "I don’t.”

  His gaze lit on the handsome and intricate emerald that she wore on her left-hand ring finger. It was a stunning piece of jewelry, but whether an indication of marriage or not he couldn’t tell. It was small and tasteful—possibly a wedding band.

  “Hubby?” he inquired.

  Skye shook her head, unwilling to discuss her personal life. “For a friend.”

  He shrugged. “Thanks. What else have you got in that wonder bag?”

  “A couple of gift boxes with Burgundy, cheese, and crackers. Two more bottles of that homemade rum, and—absurd of me to think such things might be useful—a sewing kit with good scissors, several yards of wool, mineral water, and another little kit with small pliers and a screwdriver.” At his lifted brows she added, “I design jewelry.”

  He chuckled at her sarcasm. “Boy, you don’t let things drop, do you? he demanded with wry amusement. Skye remained silent. She was already constantly on guard with him. “All right,” he continued, “I’m sorry I gave you grief over the bag, and I’m sorry I gave you grief over those ridiculous shoes. I applaud you for managing to carry that bag with that kind of weight in it! Can we cut the bickering now?”

  “I can," Skye responded sweetly, “but I’m afraid I can’t change my gender.”

  He shrugged indifferently. “Just don’t let it get in the way.” The mention of the word “gender” reminded her of something else, and she was suddenly stretching across the sand to drag the bag over to her. At his questioning glance she informed him, “I have my purse in here—”

  “Oh, Christ, of course!” he moaned. “I should have known that since we didn’t stop to retrieve that too, you must have had it stashed somewhere. God forbid we begin this survival party without the lady's handbag!”

  Skye gave him an acid stare. “My purse is small. I stash it in the larger bag so there’s less to carry—”

  “But you need a damn pack mule for the rest!”

  “Oh, shut up!” Skye murmured in exasperation. “There just might be something in my purse that can help us.”

  “Maybe,” he was quick to grant, reaching for her small leather bag as she extracted it from the larger one.

  “Hey!” she protested. “It is my purse!”

  He dropped his hand but ordered, “Open it.”

  Why did she feel as if he had blandly demanded she strip? There was nothing in her purse that he surely hadn’t seen before, but her items were personal, things that belonged to the intimacy of her day-to-day life.

  He would never understand her feelings. He would be merely impatient with more “feminine” sentiment.

  With a sigh she dumped the items over the canvas of the other bag. He began to thread through them one by one.

  “Wallet, address book, handkerchief—monogrammed, my, my—compact, lipstick—what’s this?”

  “Mascara,” Skye supplied with great patience.

  “Great, it’s going to do us a world of good.”

  “You didn’t have too much to offer yourself.”

  “Passport, more makeup stuff, pen, more makeup stuff, comb, keys, memo pad, more makeup stuff—”

  “Will you stop!” Skye demanded with annoyance. “Eyeshadow, a blush, and a liner. That’s it.”

  She didn’t like the amusement in his arched brow, but said no more as he continued, “Another pen, a pencil, postage stamps, tampon—ahhh, that time of the month, huh? Explains why you’re such a witch.”

  “I’m not a witch!” Skye snapped, hastily retrieving her items. “And it isn’t my time of month.” She didn’t know why she had added a statement that was clearly none of his business, except that his attitude—it seemed that every time a woman had an opinion, a man was blaming it on her hormones—highly irritated her. “I think you’ve made a concise assessment!” she added briskly, snatching things right and left.

  “Wait!” He brushed her hand aside. “Now this is useful.” He picked out her nail file.

  “Sure,” Skye murmured, “we can file through our prison bars.”

  The glance he gave her was pure impatience. “I’m not sure yet what we’ll be gouging, but any sharp tool is going to be useful.”

  Funny, Skye thought with a little chill, when was it—maybe an hour ago?—she had been idly repairing a chipped nail. The thing in his hand had been a nail file—just that and nothing more. Now it had become a “tool.” That her nail file might have something to do with their survival was frightening.

  Kyle kept the file, fingering it idly in his palm, then pocketing it. Skye snapped her purse shut and returned it to the canvas bag, watching him from the shade of her lashes as she did so. She realized suddenly that despite his insistence on sticking to the role of semi-callous male, many of his charges and innuendos were made with a certain grain of salt. Did he believe himself, she wondered?

  She cleared her throat and broke the silence between them. “You don’t by any wild chance happen to know where we are?” she asked hopefully.

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Oh?” Her hope increased although she raised a skeptical brow.

  He laughed easily at her expression, impatience gone. “Stop scoffing and I’ll give you my educated guess. We’re in the Pacific—”

  “Oh, that narrows it down!”

  “Eh! Listen up!” He was capable of being friendly… and of possessing a devastating smile. It was amazing to think that any woman might have given him a hard time.

  “Please,” she murmured, waving a hand. “I stand admonished.”

  “I believe we’re due east of Pitcairn Island and due south of Tahiti.”

  Skye waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, she persisted. “That’s all?”

  “What do you mean, that’s all? You asked if I knew where we were.”

  “I mean, what island is this? Where are we?”

  “Lady,” he muttered, impatient again, “I doubt if this island has a name, or if it has ever been charted on a map. We’re on a small atoll—an island created by volcanic action along the ridges on the floor of the Pacific. There are thousands of these little islands scattering the South Pacific. And you have to bear in mind that the Pacific covers a third of the earth’s surface—”

  “Oh, my God!” Skye interrupted, “You mean—”

  “No, I don’t mean that we’ll never be found. It’s unlikely that the explosion was seen, though, so it might take some time. The storm veered us off course, and then as I said, a search will be difficult because there are thousands and thousands of miles to cover.”

  Sick with desolation, Skye lashed out at him. “Damn you! You’re the pilot! And Exec
utive World Charters is supposed to be such a reliable, dependable service! Shouldn’t you be able to do something? Why don’t you have emergency flares? Why not a procedure? Why not something?” Her impetus had grown so that she charged him, wishing she could do him physical harm. Then she realized he was right—she was capable of sounding like a harpy. And trying to cast blame was an exercise in cruel futility. She wound up sliding hopelessly to her knees in the sand before him, her clenched fists falling weakly to his kneecaps, her head bowed. “I’m sorry.”

  His hand came to rest on her head. “I’m sorry too,” he said softly. She hadn't cried, but he couldn’t risk gentleness too long. Anger was the best emotion to retain for survival “I should have gotten the flares,” he announced briskly, not bothering to tell her they would probably be useless anyway—little traffic would come their way. He carefully placed her hands at her sides and drew her to her feet by her shoulders. “I’m afraid I knew the plane was going to blow and all I could think of was getting us off.” Leaving her standing by the log on the beach, he brushed past her and started off for the high grass that began in clumps off the sand, whistling. Skye stared after him incredulously.

  “Where are you going?"

  “To do something!” he called back. “Can’t you see? It’s going to be dark soon!”

  It was going to be dark soon—she could see it all too easily. It might have been a beautiful dusk at any playground beach—the sky turning pink and crimson, the water taking on the hues of deepest, mysterious indigo as the surf gently lapped the shore.

  Except it wasn’t a playground. There was no luxury suite in a hotel to return to; there would be no light to turn on when the night became black.

  “Wait a minute!” Skye called after him. “I’m coming with you!”

  He halted and turned around. She was suddenly aware that despite his disheveled clothing and mussed auburn hair, he could be very attractive when his thick lashes hid a teasing, lazy light in the lime-green eyes. “Well, I certainly hope you do plan on being useful!” He chuckled. His teeth were amazingly straight and white. “No offense, but at the moment, I’m afraid you can’t get by on ornamentation alone.”