that dark laughter, it was a long time before she slept.
Chapter Three
Caroline awoke suddenly in the cloying darkness and sat upright in the tangled sheets. A nightmare. It had been so long. The stresses of the day, she supposed. She took a deep breath and found she could smell, almost taste, the salt, the flowers from the garden below, the heat of the sun leaving the tiles beneath her windows.
It had been a mistake to leave them open. She was gathering the energy to climb out of the clinging sheets and close them when she heard it again. The sound that had dragged her, panting and shivering, from a too-sound sleep. The faint mewling cry of a newborn. She had heard babies cry through the years, and none of them ever sounded like this. So lost. So sick. As the last echo died, she buried her face in her hands. Not again, she prayed. Not again, dear God. Please, not now.
She waited, hoping, and after so many long dark minutes that she had begun once more to breathe, deep shuddering breaths of relief, the wail whispered again. Not through the open windows, but from the hall outside her room.
She had the door open before the sound had stopped, but in the darkness of the long hall she had no idea of its direction. Here there was no echo to guide her. It had stopped as soon as she opened the door, not fading into the blackness, but cut off.
She cried out against the unfairness of it. Realizing where she was, she pressed both hands against her mouth, attempting to suppress the racking sobs that always left her exhausted, incapable of any rational thought. Not again, she begged, feeling the blackness of her fear close around her.
“Caroline,” the voice spoke softly beside her, “what’s wrong? Why are you crying? What’s happened?”
She tried to regain control, to answer his concern, but she was too far into the panic the dream always caused.
Finally hard masculine arms enclosed her, offering the timeless comfort of human closeness that penetrates even the deepest hysteria, and she leaned into the warmth, the alive solidness of his chest. She let him rock her gently until the sobbing eased. Until the blackness retreated again to a manageable distance. She could smell the cologne he used and, underlying that, the scent of his body, warm and hard against her cheek. That evidence of life and sanity overwhelmed her with gratitude, so that she rubbed her face against the smoothness of his chest, turned her head to savor the reality of muscle and skin.
She was aware of the deep breath he took, and then he turned her face up to his and touched her trembling lips with his own. She wanted that touch. Her mouth opened automatically under the invasion of his tongue. She was surprised at the depth of her desire. She of the frozen emotions, the frigid indifference, wanted the lips that were moving over hers so skillfully, evoking memories that made her knees weaken and her hands clutch his shoulders.
He broke the contact, lifting his head, trying to see her face in the moon-touched darkness of the hallway. “What’s wrong?” he asked again, gathering her close.
She swallowed against the dryness. “A nightmare,” she whispered.
“That must have been one hell of a nightmare,” he said, smiling. “Not that I’m not grateful. Do you have these often?”
She was aware of the sexual teasing, the gentle invitation cloaked in the question, but she shook her head, still held safely against his body. “Not in such a long time. I thought they were gone. It’s been so long.”
They both were aware of the trembling despair of the last phrase, and his arms tightened comfortingly.
“You’re just tired—a long flight and then a bunch of strangers, maybe some of us stranger than others,” he teased gently. “Just tired.”
She began to breathe against the rhythmic caress of his hands moving soothingly over her back. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she had been asleep, still dazed from her exhaustion.
There was no sound now in the hallway. No sound from her open door but the boom of the surf against the rocks. His brother had been right. It was becoming a familiar background, as comforting as the hands against her spine. She was enfolded in its sound as Andre was enfolding her in his arms, arms that felt hard enough to protect her from any nightmare.
Embarrassed, she moved finally out of their circle, and he let her go. There was enough light now to see the smile he directed at her. She touched his face, unable to express the gratitude she felt.
“I’m all right. I promise. It was just a bad dream.”
“It’s almost dawn. Do you want me to stay with you?”
“Why were you up?” she whispered.
“I’m going to Marie Galante. To the distilleries. I told you we make our living here producing rum. That’s my domain in the many provinces of the family businesses. Julien runs everything else, but this is mine. I usually leave at daybreak and come home midafternoon. Suzanne told you how we operate in the tropics. The heat makes everything else impossible. But if you want me to stay—”
“Of course not,” she denied, pushing the tangled waves of her hair back from her face. “I’m fine. Really. And you’re probably right. Just too much happening at one time, too much excitement. My life is usually very dull. I hope you won’t tell Suzanne. I’d hate for her to think she’s employed some kind of neurotic.”
She regretted the word as soon as she’d uttered it. She didn’t know why she’d used it, hated the sound of it between them, but he only laughed.
“Everybody’s neurotic about something. Comparatively, I think nightmares rank fairly low. Stop worrying. Why don’t you try to sleep? There’s still a half hour or so of darkness. You’ll feel better if you lie down and relax.”
She smiled and nodded, although in the dimness of the hall she doubted he saw the gesture. “I think you’re right. And thank you.”
“My pleasure,” he said softly. Finally he turned and walked away.
She stood a moment longer until the silence drove her back to the open doorway of her room. The windows were still open, and the lightening gloom of the tropical false dawn drew her to stand beside them and look out. She knew she couldn’t go back to sleep. She knew that instead she would lie listening for the sounds that would signal the past had once again overtaken her, so she stood, blocking all thought, simply watching the gathering light.
She saw someone enter the garden and thought at first it was Andre, but the body was wrong, the chest too deep, the shoulders too broad for Andre’s tall leanness.
As he moved toward the pool, she saw that he wore only a pair of black bathing trunks that fitted his narrow waist and hips like a second skin. She had always hated the European styling, but somehow it was right for him, outlining the tight muscles of his buttocks and emphasizing his masculinity, the almost concave stomach, the strong thighs. She felt like a voyeur, but she watched, unable to move from the windows as he walked without hesitation to the edge of the pool and dived into the dark depths. There was none of the uncertainty he had shown in his movements last night.
He swam a long time, until the sun touched the sky into real dawn, and she wondered how he could know that. He pulled himself from the edge of the pool and used the towel he had flung down beside it to dry his hair and his face. She realized suddenly that he wasn’t wearing the dark glasses.
