his touch was familiar to her. More than familiar, it was something she craved, needed, in a way she had never needed anything before.
He stretched beside her on the bed, naked also. She had a sense of muscular limbs, of the weight of him pressing her into the comforter, his hands parting her thighs, stroking her, fingers plunging inside her. She arched to him, shamelessly begging for more.
He reached one hand to fondle her breasts, plucking at one nipple, then the next. Desire lanced through her, sharp and urgent. She raised her head, desperate to see his face, but saw only a shock of blond hair.
He was skilled and masterful, anticipating the touch that would arouse her most, his fingers playing across her clit, bringing her to the edge of release but no further. She writhed beneath him, wild with wanting, beyond caring who he was or how he knew her, wanting only the ecstasy he promised yet withheld.
Then he was pushing her back again, spreading her legs farther, plunging into her with a force that stole her breath. He filled her completely, perfectly, the rhythm of advance and retreat sending her spiraling upward again. She clutched handfuls of the comforter beneath her, the silky fabric bunching in her hands as he rode her, his face still lost to her in the haze she couldn’t shake.
She gave up fretting about it, surrendered everything to the tension growing within her. He moved faster, thrusting harder, and brought his hand down to fondle her clit once more.
At his touch, she shattered, crying out as heat and light flooded her, leaving her trembling, fully sated. She felt the clench and release of his muscles as he met his own climax, and held him tightly as he shuddered in her arms.
A profound weariness filled her, and she closed her eyes and slept, still clinging to her mystery lover, praying he would never leave.
SANDRA WOKE TO SUNLIGHT spilling from the porthole in her cabin, a dull ache in the back of her head, her thoughts a kaleidoscope of broken images. She frowned, trying to concentrate. She’d had dinner last night with Adam. They had drunk the wine he’d brought and then…
Heat flooded her face as memories of wild sex with a faceless stranger filled her. Had that been Adam?
She sat up, alarmed, and discovered she was still dressed in the red gown she’d chosen last night and that she lay on top of the comforter, which had half slid to the floor. There was no sign of the professor—no note, no indentation on the pillows other than her own.
Had it all been a dream, then? She pushed her hair back from her face and tried to concentrate. The fog, the faceless man, her own passiveness—they all pointed to a dream. Though one of the most vivid and erotic dreams she had ever experienced. She was sure she’d climaxed. Was that even possible? Men had wet dreams, but could women?
She shook her head and carefully crawled out of bed. The headache was already abating, and she felt none of the queasiness that signaled a hangover. But she had no memory of anything after she’d begun to eat the strawberries she’d chosen for dessert.
Had Adam put something in her wine to knock her out? One of the date-rape drugs she’d reported on that rendered their victims helpless? But why would he do that? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t already been a perfectly willing partner….
She stumbled into the bathroom and stripped off her clothes, checking carefully for any sign that she’d been molested. But her underwear was still in place; she bore no bruises. And beyond all that was her conviction that Adam wouldn’t do something like that. He had to know that if he wanted her, all he had to do was ask. He had no need to drug her.
She turned on the shower and stepped inside, raising her face to the hot spray. Maybe she’d had a bad reaction to something they’d eaten. She’d heard certain toxins could cause hallucinations. Could they also cause erotic dreams? She smiled. If so, maybe she should figure out what food had been the culprit and eat it again. She didn’t know if she’d ever had a real sexual encounter as intense as the one she’d dreamed.
She poured shampoo into her palm and lathered it into her hair. The dream had been odd in others ways, too. Disturbing even. Her dream self had been completely dominated by the mystery man, content to let him take charge, eager even to submit to him. The idea that such desires hid in her subconscious annoyed her. She wasn’t a passive woman and had no wish to be. If anything, she preferred to take the lead in her relationships with men. In her experience it was the only way to keep them from underestimating her.
She rinsed her hair and body, then stepped out of the shower, her thoughts turning once more to Adam. She’d have to ask him for his version of last night’s events and see what he had to say. She checked the clock and saw that it was after ten o’clock. Too late to question Adam now. He’d be at the wreck site, continuing his survey. A survey she hoped he’d finish soon. She was anxious to get to work.
What was she supposed to do with herself in the meantime? She looked around the stateroom, hoping for something that would strike her interest, but found nothing. Then her gaze rested on the view through the porthole—a vista of Passionata’s Island. That was it then; she’d explore the former pirate’s stronghold, maybe even take along a camera and get some footage of the tower. If she found anything particularly interesting, she could send Jonas to film more later.
Cheered by the idea, she dressed in an orange bikini, then added khaki shorts and a shirt over that. With tennis shoes and hat, she was ready to discover what it was that had attracted a woman like Passionata to this beautiful but desolate place.
ADAM RESISTED THE URGE to visit Sandra’s ship and make sure she was all right after the strange events of the previous night. He couldn’t think of any way to do so without calling attention to himself among the crew; they were already giving him a hard enough time about having dinner with the celebrated news personality.
He tried to ignore their jibes and off-color comments. He’d been around long enough to know he made an easy target. He was a workaholic, careless of his appearance—an unlikely choice for a glamorous woman like Sandra.
But there’d been no mistaking her physical interest in him. He couldn’t deny the idea flattered him. Intrigued him. He wasn’t a man who’d lacked for female companionship, but Sandra was definitely in another league from the quiet, bookish types he preferred.
In any case, he hoped she was all right. He had no intention of mentioning her odd behavior of the night before. Maybe she had been drunk.
As soon as he was out on the water, headed to the wreck site, he put all thoughts of Sandra aside. This was what he’d lived the past ten months for, this chance to touch a part of history, to uncover things no one else had seen in three hundred years, to make all the words written in the books lining his office at the university come to life.
As an only child whose parents worked long hours, Adam’s chief amusements had been reading and exploring the stretch of woods behind the housing development where his family lived. He’d occupied himself for entire summers imagining elaborate scenarios where he discovered dinosaur bones or lost civilizations. To realize those boyhood dreams as an adult was the greatest thrill he could enjoy. That the pursuit of that goal had left him little time for long-term relationships with women hadn’t mattered to him so far. Work had given him everything he needed in his life.
“Who makes the first dive today?” Roger asked as he anchored the dive boat.
“I’ll work with Tessa,” Charlie volunteered.
Tessa made a face. “I’d rather work with Adam.”
“You
