Eyes Of Fire

Eyes up, old man, he told himself. Study her face. Her eyes. That’s where the changes in a woman appear.

She wasn’t wearing a hat or sunglasses, so she was easy to assess. She was standing on the bow, waiting to tie up at the dock. The boat came nearer, nearer; the engine cut. She was absolutely gorgeous, almost pagan, barefoot and perfectly balanced on those long, wickedly long legs. Her hands were on her hips as she waited. She defied nature, the wind, the water, like a goddess from the sea, Venus rising, red hair blazing in the wind, whipping behind her with the pride and majesty of a battle banner.

Her face…

Yes, her face.

Sophisticated. Beautifully boned, lightly tanned. Eyes large, bright, an extraordinary vibrant green that both clashed wildly against her hair like a winter’s storm and yet seemed to complement it, and the defined features of her face, majestically. Her nose was perfectly proportioned and dead straight. Her face was nearly oval, with just the hint of a heart shape to soften perfection to beauty. Lips sculpted, arrestingly defined. Brows arched, a slightly darker shade than the blazing auburn that topped her head. Standing against the wind, she compelled attention and admiration. She was so dignified.

And yet somehow…

She reeked of sensuality, as well, he realized somewhat irritably, everything that was so perfect and serene about her blending with the fire in her eyes and the wicked length of her…

Yes, this was Samantha.

He hadn’t expected to see her quite so soon, nor had he expected her to be quite so vividly arresting. He’d been younger himself, the last time he’d seen her. Too young, maybe. Too impetuous, too quick to rise to anger. Strange what the years, time and circumstance could do to a person. But then, years ago she had been way too proud herself. And she still had that cloak of pride about her now, so it seemed. Ah, yes, she had a look about her. Men probably still fell flat in her path, and she probably still stepped right over them. Sometimes, maybe, she chewed them up, spat them out.

He knew. He’d been chewed up.

Spat out.

Something suddenly seemed to squeeze in his chest. The past hurt. No, seeing Sam hurt. Some part of her had stayed with him, no matter where he had gone, what he had done. Now Justin was gone. And Hank was gone.

And it hurt to wonder, not to know, to envision what might have been.

Well, he was back. And no matter what she wanted this time, she was going to have him on her like a leech.

No spitting him out.

Not this time, baby, he thought. This time, she was going to have to pay attention to him.

Because she had to have the answers he wanted. He knew it.

And she was going to give them to him.

He gritted his teeth, locking his jaw. He was determined that he wasn’t going to give a damn how he got his answers.

Because she was in danger.

She didn’t know it, and he didn’t even know just how or when it was coming. He just knew it was coming.

Soon.

Very soon.

He came off the mail boat, arriving at four-fifteen on a Tuesday afternoon. Sam would never forget the time, because she had been returning with her small group of intermediate divers, standing at the bow, ready to hop ashore to tie up.

Instead she plummeted into the water, missing the dock at the sight of him.

He was back.

Amazingly, she didn’t recognize him at first.

She just saw the mail boat pulling into the Seafire Isle dock at the same time as the Sloop Bee. Then she saw the man, standing in the aft section of the boat.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t fairly secure in herself, nor was it that Seafire Isle didn’t draw its share of men, many of them single, and many of those handsome, adventurous, good-looking—even nice.

She’d just never seen anyone quite like him arrive at all, ever—or so she thought at first.

He was dressed casually, a tailored jacket worn loosely over a knit shirt against the wind, soft, worn jeans, sneakers. He carried a duffel bag, no more. It lay at his feet while he stood in the aft of the approaching mail boat, arms crossed over his chest. He had the easy stance of a man accustomed to boats, to the sea; his feet were set apart, and he stood balanced against the waves and rocking of the sea.

He was a good six-foot-three—Sam could easily judge his height, since she was almost five-ten herself. Half the heartbreak of her school years had been in trying to find a boy who wasn’t eye level with her breasts at the dances.

He carried himself extremely well. His shoulders were attractively broad; his chest appeared well-muscled, his waist very trim, his legs long and powerful. She found herself imagining what he would look like undressed. Not that undressed, of course, but in swim trunks.

“Hey, Sam! The line!” Jem called to her.

“Got it!” she called back, leaping out right before she fell in. Luckily for her, she’d spent the majority of her life on the island, with much of her time on boats and in the water. She could recover quickly—even as she wondered if she had actually been gaping and if the new arrival was laughing behind his Ray-Bans at the way she had so nearly fallen for him.

Because he was watching her, she thought. She couldn’t see his eyes because of the dark glasses, but the tilt of his head was toward her. He wasn’t exactly smiling, but there did seem to be the slightest curve to his mouth. A generous mouth, very sensual, well-defined and beautifully shaped. His cheekbones were high and broad, somehow both cleanly hewn and rugged in appearance. His jaw was square, firm. His hair was dark, almost ebony, touched at the ends by a natural reddish tinge given by the sea and salt air to hair, no matter how dark it might be, when the body to which it was attached spent too much time in the sun and water. His face was almost bronze from the sun as well.

Men could, perhaps, be more conventionally handsome, but she’d never seen anyone so completely electrifying and compelling in all her admittedly somewhat sheltered life.

Never seen…except for once.

Oh, God! It couldn’t be….

Beneath the Ray-Bans, his eyes were blue-gray, a color that could be like mist, like metal; it could warm, cut, pierce, demand, burn with silver flames….

No, it couldn’t be him. But it was.

Dear God, it was.

Her entire body seemed to twist into knots, to freeze.

And it was then, at precisely that moment, that the Sloop Bee banged softly against the dock and she was unbalanced and tossed cleanly into the water.

“Sam?” Jem Fisher, the tall, ebony-dark Bahamian who had been her best friend the majority of her life as well as her partner in most things, called from the deck of the Sloop Bee.

Sputtering, furious with herself, Samantha surfaced, caught hold of the end of the wooden dock and pulled herself up.

The water had been good. It had washed away the shock.

And the startling pain, she assured herself.

She didn’t glance toward the mail boat as she slicked back her newly soaked hair, waving a hand toward Jem. “It was just so hot!” she called. “Too much sun. I thought I’d cool down a little.”

Jem arched dark brows over his deep brown eyes, his handsome black face set in a mask of puzzlement.