Beyond Reach. Sandra Field

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       CHAPTER THREE

      LUCY woke at daylight. She knew exactly where she was as soon as her eyes opened. On board Seawind in Road Harbor. With four weeks ahead of her to cruise the Virgin Islands.

      She jumped out of bed, filled with the tingling anticipation she had felt as a little girl every Christmas Eve. Except that this time she was the one who’d given herself a gift. The gift of time, she thought fancifully. What better gift was there?

      Although even Christmas Eve hadn’t always been trustworthy, she remembered, her hands faltering as she pulled on her darkest shorts. Her father had died when she was three, and confidently, at three, four and five, Lucy had requested Santa Claus to bring him back. Only when her elder sister Marcia had laughed at her efforts had she ceased to hope that she would find him early in the morning under the Christmas tree among all her other presents.

      She gave her head a little shake. She rarely thought of her father now. And she had a lot to do today. Reaching up to look out of the open port, she saw that the sun was already glinting on the water, and again she was swept with excitement. When she went to the supermarket today she’d leave a message on her mother’s answering machine, explaining her change of plans, then she was free. All she had to do was work hard and have fun.

      And keep her temper with Tory Donovan.

      She could handle Troy. She was through with big blond men.

      Just as everything had gone wrong the day before, today the gods were with Lucy. Before she left for town, the galley, the brass and the woodwork were all gleaming with cleanliness. Near the delicatessen she found a spice shop that sold a series of recipe books with all sorts of suggestions for easy and tasty meals and aperitifs—just what she needed. She bought the first volume and several bottles of mixed spices, had a lemonade in a little restaurant and drew up her menus, then hit the deli and the supermarket.

      It gave her great pleasure to stow everything away in her tidy galley. In the tiny microwave over the gas stove she heated rotis for lunch—West Indian sandwiches stuffed with curried chicken and vegetables, that tasted delicious washed down with ginger ale. Troy had been scrubbing the deck and polishing the winches; they ate in a silence that she was quite prepared to call companionable. When she’d cleared away the dishes, she tackled the three cabins that led off the saloon.

      She was down on her knees wiping the floor of the aft cabin’s shower when Troy spoke behind her. ‘Let’s take a break, Lucy.’

      She glanced round, swiping at her hair with the back of her hand. ‘How does it look?’

      ‘You’ve done wonders,’ he said.

      His praise gave her a warm glow of pride. ‘I’ve had a ball, actually—the woodwork and the fittings are all so beautiful that it’s a pleasure to clean them. Much more fun than cleaning my apartment.’ She sat back on her heels, stripping off her rubber gloves. ‘What was that about a break?’

      ‘I have to run the engine a couple of hours every day to keep the refrigerator and freezer cold. I thought we might head for Peter Island and have a swim. What have you got left to do?’

      ‘The saloon floor. Make the beds and put out the towels.’ Lucy tilted her head to one side. ‘You did say swim, didn’t you?’

      She had managed to coax from him one of his reluctant smiles—a smile that, oddly, hurt something deep within her. He looked at her bucket and sponge. ‘I hate to tear you away from something you’re enjoying so much.’

      ‘For you, I’ll make the sacrifice.’ She got to her feet. ‘Will you show me how to snorkel?’

      He looked surprised. ‘You don’t know how?’

      ‘Troy, I’ve never been further south than Boston in my entire life. Everything down here’s new to me.’

      Her forehead was beaded with perspiration and there was a smudge of dirt on her chin, but her eyes were dancing and her smile was without artifice. Troy said slowly, ‘You’re making up for lost time, aren’t you?’

      She wouldn’t have expected such discernment—or even interest—from him. Her heart beating a little faster, she said, ‘I guess I am. These four weeks seem like time out. A break from my normal life. I—I seem to have lost my sense of direction somewhere along the way.’

      As though the words were torn from him, he said, ‘You’re not alone there.’ Then he raked his fingers through his hair. ‘Let’s pull up anchor and get out of here.’

      No more revelations, Lucy realized, and knew better than to push. ‘I’ll dump the bucket and be right there,’ she said. But for a moment she stood still, watching him stride across the saloon and up the steps. His leg muscles were those of a runner, but what was he running from?

      And how had he lost his way?

      Once they were anchored off the beach at Peter Island, Lucy went below to put on her swimsuit. She had bought it—acting on another of her impulses—in the middle of a hailstorm in March. It was, in direct consequence, a bright red and quite minimal bikini. If she’d known about Troy Donovan, she thought, trying without success to cover even a fraction of her cleavage, she’d have purchased a staid one-piece. In an innocuous shade of beige. She pulled a white sport shirt over the bikini and went up on deck.

      But the wind instantly whipped the shirt away from her body. As Troy turned around, about to say something, his jaw dropped, and he gaped at her as though someone had hit him hard in the chest. She was tall and full-breasted, her hips ripely curved, her long legs tapering to narrow ankles and feet. As an adolescent Lucy had hated her body, for she had shot up at the age of thirteen, towering over the boys in her class yet having to endure their covert and not-so-covert sniggers at her generous breasts. She had wanted to be tiny and delicate and feminine, like Tanya Holliday.

      In the intervening years she had more or less made peace with her build. But right now she felt absurdly self-conscious, as though she were fourteen again. Grabbing at the shirt, she yanked it over what felt like an immense expanse of bare flesh.

      This gave her something to do. Because if Troy was staring at her, she was struggling hard not to return the compliment. Under his taut belly his dark green trunks sat low on his hips; any attempt to regard his torso as nothing but neatly delineated groups of muscles—like the diagrams in her anatomy text—was a miserable failure. She said weakly, ‘Where’s the snorkeling gear?’

      He snapped his mouth shut, knelt down and began hauling fins and masks out of a storage hatch. The wind played with his thick, unruly hair. Lucy quickly found a pair of fins that fit, then Troy passed her a mask. ‘Try this one. Keep your hair out of the way—when you breathe in through your nose, the mask should stay airtight.’

      The first mask was too СКАЧАТЬ