Stormy Vows

  He led her to an ancient Chevy pickup truck parked a few spaces away. She allowed him to help her into the vehicle with a meek docility that was foreign to her. She felt only a dull curiosity as he put the truck in gear and with much coughing and sputtering eased it onto the highway.

  “Where are we going?” she asked remotely. She wished vaguely that the fierce throbbing in her head would stop.

  “I landed the 'copter at a private airport about three miles from here,” he said shortly. “I rented the truck from a kid who services the airplanes.”

  Brenna nodded weakly, leaning her head against the back of the seat. She closed her eyes to shut out the brilliance of the on-coming headlights that only increased the stabbing pain behind her eyes. She vaguely realized that there were many questions still unanswered, but she had no energy or strength to ask them at the moment. It was enough, for now, that Randy and she were safe and on their way home to Twin Pines.

  Donovan seemed to have a similar disinclination to talk, and the transfer from the pickup to the helicopter was made in virtual silence. It wasn't until they were underway for almost twenty minutes that she realized from the mirrored shifting horizon that they were over water. The shock of the discovery jolted her sharply out of the haze of pain and weariness that had enveloped her since she had first seen Donovan at the motel.

  “There's some mistake,” Brenna shouted over the noise of the rotors, pointing at the still waters of the Pacific below them.

  Donovan's mouth twisted. “No mistake,” he said with a coolness that was belied by his taut, chiseled face and burning eyes. “We're going to the island.”

  Brenna shook her head. “We can't,” she protested in confusion. “I have to get back to Randy.” Somehow in the bewilderment and exhaustion of that moment, the urgency to be with Randy, and reassure herself that he was blessedly safe and secure was paramount.

  Donovan shot her a brief glance that had the force of a blow. “I realize how devoted you are to your son,” he said coldly. “He's being flown back to Twin Pines, and will be well taken care of. You, however, are going to the island,” he finished inexorably.

  She shook her head in dejected bewilderment. She couldn't understand why Donovan was so displeased with her. It was not her fault that she had been forced to go with Chadeaux. Even if Donovan had been put to a certain amount of trouble on her behalf, he still did not have to be so irascible. Her mouth twisted wryly at the blatant understatement. He was obviously in a white-hot rage. But why were they going to the island, she wondered uneasily.

  When she hesitantly ventured the question to the grim stranger beside her, she received no answer other than a contemptuous smile that did nothing to put her mind at rest.

  He wasn't any more communicative after they had landed the helicopter on the island, and made their way through the woods, their path lit by the powerful beam of Donovan's flash-light. His pace was fast and relentless, and he made no concession for her smaller stride, merely propelling her ahead of him with a determination that gave her neither breath nor strength for protests or questions.

  It was not until they had reached the chalet, and he had shut the door and flashed on the overhead light, that he turned to regard her white face, tousled hair, and rapidly heaving breast with cool appraisal. “You look like you could use a drink,” he said impersonally, crossing to the portable bar and pouring her a small brandy. He returned to hand it to her with an expressionless face.

  She took a small sip of the amber liquid, and made a face at the obnoxious taste, though it did feel glowingly warm going down. After he had given her the glass, he went back to the stone fireplace and was in the process now of building a fire with swift economical movements. She watched him for a moment, then went over to the scarlet couch and curled up in one corner of it, her legs tucked beneath her like a small child. Indeed, she felt like a child, she thought wearily. One who had been punished unfairly, and who now still had to face the incomprehensible anger of grown-ups.

  Donovan had succeeded in bringing a brisk crackling blaze to life, and he turned from where he was kneeling to regard her once more with that inexplicable air of cold antagonism. “Feeling better?” he asked carelessly, and as she nodded silently, he rose and removed his dark suit jacket and tie, throwing them both carelessly on the velvet arm chair. He rolled up his sleeves baring his powerfully muscled forearms, and, crossing back to the bar, made himself a drink.

  He did not join her on the couch, but returned to the fire-place to stand with his back to the flames, his legs spread apart and the orange glow a fiery aureole around him. He looked one with the flames, Brenna thought hazily, the combination of the brandy and shock making her dreamily fanciful. He was Lucifer, springing from his fiery kingdom. The vibrant vitality that was always present in him seemed to be almost a visible and dangerous force tonight. Her tortured nerves, that had begun to relax infinitesimally with the soothing effect of the brandy and warmth of the fire, tightened warily as she met the impenetrable blue eyes of the man opposite her.

  She brushed a swatch of hair away from her cheek, and moistened her lips nervously. “How did you know where to find us?” she asked falteringly.

  The line of Donovan's lips hardened, and he finished half of his drink in a quick swallow. “I suppose like most women, you're enamored of explanations, and must have everything laid out for you,” he said cynically. “I wouldn't probe too deeply into my discovery that you were gone, if I were you. My emotions are still a bit raw, and I'm trying hard to control my less than civilized impulses.”

  She looked at him bewilderedly. “I don't understand.” she said slowly, her brown eyes widening.

  “Still playing the innocent?” he asked derisively. “You do it very well, Brenna, but the game is over.” He took another swallow of his drink. “However, I'm willing to satisfy your curiosity.” He leaned indolently against the side of the fireplace.

  “Bob Phillips was in the garage, tinkering with the Mercedes, when he saw you get into the car with Chadeaux. He hadn't been notified that you were going out today, so he called through to my office on the car phone to check.” Donovan's mouth twisted bitterly.

  “I recognized the description of Chadeaux at once, and told Phillips to follow you and report back to me on the CB radio. I was at the airstrip in ten minutes, and have been in constant contact with Phillips on the ground ever since. When it became evident that you were headed for Portland, I radioed Monty to pick up Doris Charles and get her there on the double.”

  Brenna rubbed her head wearily, her face still puzzled. “But why would Phillips notify you just because he wasn't told I was going out?”

  Donovan shrugged. “It was his job to keep track of you,” he said coolly.

  Brenna put her glass down very carefully on the end table beside her. “Do you mean that Phillips wasn't a chauffeur at all?” she asked quietly. “That he was some sort of spy with orders to report to you?”

  “Not a spy, a bodyguard,” Donovan replied incredibly. “When you married me, you automatically became the target of all sorts of undesirables, from kidnappers to cranks who think they have a grudge against me for one reason or another. I was trying to protect you.” He smiled mirthlessly. “I trusted you. We had a bargain. You're to be complimented. You were very convincing. I don't often trust a woman's word.”

  Brenna flinched at the stinging sarcasm of his tone, and the smoldering anger that couldn't be mistaken in his eyes. She began to feel a rising sense of aggravation at Donovan's antagonistic attitude. She had played the victim long enough in this scenario. First with that swine Chadeaux, and now with Donovan and his incomprehensible sniping.

  “I'm a bit tired of your sarcasm and innuendos, Michael,” she said lifting her chin. “I have nothing to be ashamed of, and if you have some complaint, I wish you'd speak up.”

  “I believe the time for speech is past,” Donovan said harshly, as he replaced his glass on the bar. “We have nothing further to discuss, Brenna. It's time
for the payment of debts.” In two long strides he had reached her, pulling her to her feet and into his arms with an explosive release of the savagery that had smoldered just beneath the surface. His mouth crushed hers with a brutal strength that bruised her lips and robbed her of breath. She grew faint and dizzy as it seemed to continue interminably.

  When his lips left hers they were both breathing hard, and she leaned weakly against him, her shaking legs unwilling to support her.

  “What was the matter, Brenna?” Donovan said savagely, his blue eyes burning. “When I told you it was time you kept your bargain, did you panic at the thought of giving yourself to anyone but that miserable bastard, who used you and then deserted you? Did you decide you wanted him after all?” His mouth covered hers again as if he were draining the very life force from her. “Did you phone him yesterday after I left you, and tell him to come for you?” he asked harshly, as his hands fastened in her hair and pulled her head back roughly.

  “No, it's not true,” Brenna whimpered. Never in her wildest imaginings had she thought that Donovan would believe she had gone with Chadeaux willingly. She put her hands against his chest protestingly. “You must believe me, Michael,” she said huskily, looking up at him entreatingly. “I didn't go with him of my own accord. He forced me.”

  “What truly incredible eyes you have,” Donovan said mockingly, his face hard. “They have the gentleness and innocence of a young doe. You might even have been able to fool me again, if I hadn't seen you on that bed with Chadeaux.” The memory of that scene caused his face to darken with such primitive rage, that Brenna felt the first thrill of real fear course through her. “God! I wish I'd killed him,” he said hoarsely.

  “I was fighting him,” Brenna insisted desperately. “We fell…” He cut her off with a kiss that was even more savage than the ones that had gone on before. When he released her, she knew with a feeling of hopelessness that he had gone beyond reasoning.

  “Shut up!” Donovan said huskily, his eyes wild. “He was making love to you. Phillips said you got into the car willingly. You even sent Doris Charles away for the afternoon so that you wouldn't have to make any explanations about taking Randy away.”

  Brenna closed her eyes. It all fitted together so neatly, she thought wearily, and it formed such a completely erroneous and incriminating picture.

  How was she to convince Donovan of the truth, when suddenly she was too tired to think coherently? Her head was aching intolerably, and her knees were shaking and weak with reaction to this final strain on her nerves. She knew she must try to convince Donovan how mistaken he was, but the lassitude that was slowly enveloping her made the effort seem superhuman in scope.

  “No more arguments?” Donovan asked grimly. “Good.” He shifted his hold and scooped her up in his arms, and headed for the spiral staircase. As he passed the lightswitch, he hit it, plunging the chalet into darkness that was relieved only by the flickering light from the fire.

  As Donovan negotiated the stairs, Brenna tried desperately to muster the energy to protest. This was all wrong, she realized dimly. The gossamer fabric of trust and friendship they had woven so painstakingly was now rent and torn, and Donovan's savage jealousy was threatening to destroy the pitiful remnants that remained. He carried her to the king-sized bed and placed her on the silken counterpane, then he straightened and started to undo the buttons of his white shirt.

  He looked down at her, a dark anonymous shadow whose grim, taut features were occasionally illuminated by the upward surge of the flickering firelight. “I thought our first night together should be spent here, under the circumstances,” he said mockingly, as he stripped off the shirt and threw it aside. “I find it most fitting that the consummation of our marriage should be in surroundings that have witnessed a multitude of similar meaningless and shallow interludes.” He was swiftly stripping off the rest of his clothes, the firelight playing across the powerful shoulders and pectoral muscles of his chest.

  Vulcan! she thought dimly, from some distant primal memory, as he joined her on the bed. His hands were deft and experienced as he brushed away her protesting hands, and drew the white suntop over her head, loosening the front closing of her bra with cool efficiency.

  Knowing that her remonstrances would have no more effect than a flimsy canoe before a tidal wave, she felt she had to try once more. “Please, Michael,” she whispered huskily. “Not like this.”

  “Yes, precisely like this,” he said thickly. “If you expected gentleness or courtly passion, forget it. You've forfeited the right to anything but this.” His hands had removed the lilac slacks, and dispensed with the minute bikini panties that were the last barrier between them. Brenna felt a flash of shame send a burning blush over her entire body, as his eyes ran over her naked beauty in almost impersonal appraisal.

  “I'm going to use you, Brenna,” he said hoarsely. “I'm going to use this lovely body of yours in every way I know how, and when I've finished, I'm going to do it all over again. I'm going to drown myself in you to the point of satiation, and when I've rid myself of this crazy obsession I have for you, I'm going to kick that lovely tail right out of my life and hope to God I don't have to look into those lying eyes ever again.”

  He pulled her close, the touch of his warm vibrant flesh against her own waking her from the dreamy lassitude that had enfolded her like a warm blanket. She reacted helplessly, as she always did, to the magnetism of his powerful body. Though his words lacerated her spirit, her flesh recognized only that this was Michael, the man she loved, and so there must be a response.

  As their bodies touched, Donovan's coolness vanished as if it had never existed. His body hardened against hers, as he buried his head in her shoulder, a convulsive shudder rippling through his large frame. “Damn you!” he groaned brokenly. “Why is it that I only have to touch you, to turn on like a teenager with his first woman.”

  His lips covered hers, his tongue invading her to ravish her mouth as his hands were ravishing her body. He was memorizing every line and curve. His hands caressing and branding at the same time, so that she felt that after tonight there wouldn't be an inch of her that was not known and possessed by him. His mouth was at her swelling breasts, and then on the softness of her belly, before returning to her mouth again in a fever of desire.

  She arched against him, no longer caring how this sensual witchery had started. She wanted only completion. The desires they felt had been banked low for too long. She could feel the need for him burn hot in every vein until she was gasping and moving helplessly, her hands running first in compulsive caresses over his smooth, muscular shoulders only to bury themselves in the thick crisp hair at the nape of his neck.

  His knee parted her thighs and he knelt above her, his hands filling themselves with her breasts. His hair-roughened chest was heaving and his blue eyes glazed with emotion, as he looked down into her flushed face and glowing eyes.

  “I want to devour you,” he growled thickly. “I've never wanted a woman like this in my life.”

  Brenna was one throbbing, pulsing entity as she writhed beneath his tormenting hands. Dimly she was aware that there was something she should tell him. She tried, “Please,” she gasped. “I must tell you…”

  “Too late,” he muttered hoarsely. “Too late for anything but this.” And his hips plunged forward ruthlessly.

  Brenna gave a muffled scream at the hot piercing jolt of pain that wracked her with shocking suddenness. Her hands, that had been caressing, now tried frantically to repulse the intruding body that was suddenly stiff and still above her.

  “My God!” Donovan swore, his eyes stunned and unbelieving as he looked down at her pain-filled eyes.

  “Please. Let me go,” she whispered, her hands pushing at him futilely.

  He closed his eyes, his face taut with the battle he was waging. When his eyes opened, they were glazed and desperate. “I can't,” he groaned. “God! I can't do it. I promise I'll make it good for you, sweetheart.”

  He
started to move with exquisite care and patience, and he kept his word. Soon the pain was gone, lost in a rapturous vortex of sensation that seemed to be both the beginning and the end of all sensual pleasure. As she began to respond, meeting thrust for thrust with wild passion, he forgot his caution and, holding her close, he plunged again and again, his voice murmuring hotly in her ear. “God, you're so tight, sweetheart. That's it, move with me, love. Put your hands on me. Touch me, Brenna.”

  The passionate litany was as much an aphrodisiac as the sweetness of his lips, that moved to caress the curve of her ear and the sensitive cords of her neck. She had never known such spiraling pleasure could build to this unknown dimension that was almost painful in its intensity. It continued to build until she felt lost in rapture, before the spiral shattered in a blinding explosion that left her panting and clinging desperately to Michael, her nails buried in his shoulder, as he collapsed helplessly against her in an agony of satisfaction.

  Her arms held his shuddering body firmly and tenderly. She received almost as much pleasure out of the knowledge that the supreme enjoyment of her body had brought the powerful man to this pitch of dependent need, as she had derived out of her own sexual fulfillment.

  He moved off her slowly, his breathing still rapid but his heartbeat slowing as he settled on his back, his arm curved possessively around her.

  Michael reached down and pulled a white fur throw from the foot of the bed. He tucked it around them, changing his position so that her head was nestled in the curve of his shoulder, her shining brown hair splayed over his chest.

  Brenna nestled contentedly closer, feeling as delightfully relaxed and drowsy as a kitten. She yawned, her heavy eyelids closing irresistibly.

  “Don't get too comfortable,” Michael advised firmly, his deep voice rumbling beneath her ear. “You have quite a few explanations to make.”

  Her eyes flew open as the realization struck her. She had been so lost in the rapturous euphoria of her first experience with physical love, that she had forgotten everything but the pleasure of giving herself to Michael in this exquisite fashion. But now it was brought home to her that Michael knew!