Scarlet Butterfly Page 3

  “I’m thinking it would have served you right if I’d dumped you overboard in the storm and let the river wash you out to sea.”

  She gasped, and he knew he’d been too harsh. He wasn’t angry with her—it was his actions that had unsettled him.

  “Now just a minute, Mr.… what is your name?”

  “Rogan, just Rogan, as if you didn’t know,” he snapped, trying to gather his senses.

  He’d been wrong when he’d called her Sleeping Beauty. Sleeping Beauty was much too passive. His first impression, the adventurous Goldilocks, was more like it. Even now, after waking in bed with a strange man, her face flushed with passion, she wasn’t backing down.

  “I didn’t,” she said, straightening her shoulders defiantly. “But if you’re Sean Rogan, you’re the man I’ve come to see.”

  Given the absurdity of the situation, her choice of words elicited a genuine laugh. He was beginning to enjoy her brave demeanor. “So you’ve come to see me? Then look, because I’m not in a position to hide much.”

  He wasn’t. She had to hand it to him: He didn’t even try. He was magnificently male. The erection gradually subsided, though his size was still—arresting. Any other man might have been embarrassed at the diminishing physical expression of his manhood, but not Rogan. He simply rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet and waited.

  “I’d like to get up now, Rogan,” Carolina began. “I find it exceedingly difficult to carry on a reasonable discussion under the circumstances.”

  “Yes, it’s the circumstances that I’d like to talk about—you in my bed, in my arms—”

  “Yes, well, it wasn’t my doing,” she snapped. “What did you do with my clothes?”

  “I did nothing with your clothes. Your slip seems to be in place, if you lower it from around your neck. I don’t know where you came from, but dressed like that, you must have really had an interesting going-away party.”

  Carolina felt her composure give way. Fencing words with this dark-haired, angry man was well and good, but she was woefully inexperienced in foreplay, wordplay, or male-female play in general.

  But what had just happened between them had been a two-way street. She’d been giving as much as he, and the sudden separation was causing a physical reaction not unlike the one that occurred when her medication needed repeating.

  His surprise was as evident as her own, though she couldn’t understand why he claimed not to know what had happened to her clothes, or how she’d gotten there. She might not have known the name, but those strong arms had brought her on board and—

  On board, he’d said. The schooner. “I’m on the Scarlet Butterfly?”

  He nodded. “Of course. Isn’t that what you intended?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes! Yes! I made it!”

  His brother had been right. This had to be the woman—the fruitcake who’d asked all the questions. Sean shook his head and turned to rummage in a drawer for a pair of clean shorts. He stepped into them and pulled them up his muscular legs with little regard for his audience.

  “You made it,” he agreed. “Too bad your car didn’t. It would have saved me a long, hot walk. I’ll be in the galley. There’s a bathroom through that door, or what passes for one on a ship. I’ll give you five minutes to get out of my bed and join me. I want some explanations.”

  Carolina watched him leave the room adjusting the waist of his shorts. She felt the tension, as well as the temperature, drop as he left. At least he’d decided to admit that he’d brought her. So he had been sleeping when he’d … Well, she’d been sleeping too. She let out a long, uneven breath and felt her body complain over the loss of comfort. No, if she were honest, it wasn’t comfort that it wanted—it was something more. Suddenly the idea of dressing appealed to her, as did as the smell of coffee that came wafting down the steps a short time later.

  Coffee, and was that pipe tobacco? Too bad. Smoking was a bad habit for such a fine specimen of a man. Carolina sighed. Who was she to caution him about health? She’d never done anything to make herself ill, but she had been anyway. Still, except for the loss of some weight and a lot of hair, which was only now beginning to grow back, she’d survived.

  A glance around the cabin didn’t reveal her clothes. The only garment available was Rogan’s shirt, crumpled in a wrinkled mass on the floor. She slid her arms into the sleeves and pulled the front together. The tail of the shirt fell to her knees, and there was enough room inside the buttoned garment for two women her size. In the tiny bathroom she used Rogan’s comb to straighten her hair, thought about borrowing his toothbrush, and settled for a bit of paste on her finger instead.

  She was down on her knees in the cabin looking under the bed for her shoes when she realized that he’d returned. Even then she had the crazy thought that she might be dreaming, for he suddenly seemed different. Standing in the shadows of the companionway, just out of full view, he held a pipe in his hand as he watched her.

  “I guess you don’t know where my shoes are, either?”

  “In the chest. But you won’t need them. My ship is quite comfortable. Are you all right?”

  “If you mean the state of my health, yes. If you’re referring to your assault on my body, I’m not sure. Perhaps we ought to talk about that.”

  She opened the chest and found her clothes. Why hadn’t he said where he’d put them in the beginning? With a sigh of relief, Carolina turned a questioning face back to the companionway.

  He was gone.

  But he was right about the shoes; the floor was polished and smooth. And her clothes looked hot and out of place. If she removed her slip, Rogan’s shirt would cover her like a short dress, except for the deep vee above the top button. Formality suddenly seemed a bit foolish as she remembered what they’d shared. She took off the slip and buttoned the shirt.

  Carolina tucked the slip under the pillow and pulled up the covers before starting for the galley and the smell of coffee. A steady patter of rain fell on the deck overhead. She had to dash across an open area to the on-deck portion of the living quarters that made up the galley.

  “Awwwk? Hot damn, she’s a beauty!”

  Carolina came to an abrupt stop.

  “Looky, looky, looky, here’s nooky!”

  “Shut up, you bald, beaked buzzard,” Rogan snapped, “or I’ll pluck you and eat you for dinner!”

  “Awwwk! Try it, scabby!”

  Carolina looked from the man drinking coffee at the table to the cage swinging from the ceiling.

  “A parrot?”

  “He claims to be a nightingale. But then, he lies a lot.”

  “Oh, ho ho, and a bottle of beer.”

  Of course there’d be a parrot. “Beer?” she asked with a smile. “I thought it was a bottle of rum. May I have a cup?”

  “Not a drop of rum on board, Goldilocks. What happened to your hair?”

  “I meant coffee,” she corrected, and glanced out the open door at the water. “I shaved my head. It’s just growing back.”

  “Why, are you some kind of rebel?”

  She smiled. A rebel? Her? Not until now. “In a way, I suppose,” she said, with a certain amount of pride. “It looks like the river is moving awfully fast.”

  “It isn’t the river, it’s a lake. Well, actually, I suppose it’s both now. Technically, I guess you’d call this a flood. We caught the edge of a hurricane.”

  “Will we be all right?”

  “Sure. The dock is underwater, and I don’t even want to think about your rental car, but the Butterfly can handle almost anything.”

  Sean poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Carolina, who was wearing his shirt as if it belonged to her. Their hands touched and he felt her jerk back, then cry out as the coffee sloshed over the rim and across her fingers.

  Quickly, he took the cup and set it on the table. He wet a cloth, sat, and pulled her between his thighs while he cleaned the coffee from her hand. He fought the urge to kiss away the pain and tried not to notice the electricity that
arced between them.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered.

  But it wasn’t. And he didn’t know why. He was holding her captive with his body. She looked frightened, yet she didn’t pull away. There were circles under her eyes, but the dark smudges didn’t detract from the fine bone structure of her lovely face. She was beautiful. Her delicate face was oval, with a small aristocratic nose that turned up at the end in a dare.

  “I’m really all right,” she said quietly, stepping away.

  She reclaimed her cup and filled it again. Eyes too large and too bright for his comfort looked at him over the edge of the cup as she sipped the hot liquid. They were a cool, silvery green, almost gray, like the river in shadows. He wondered if she could sense the undercurrents bouncing about the galley, and decided that she could. Most women would fill the silence with words, he thought; most women wouldn’t be able to exist in a void washed with such vivid sensations.

  Sean cleared his throat.

  “That was your car back on the road?”

  “Yes, I think I ran out of gas. I’ll call a service station, if you’ll let me use your phone.”

  “No phone. I doubt anybody would come anyway. The current is still rising. Looks like neither of us is going anywhere.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that I need my clothes.”

  “I’m afraid you’re out of luck until the storm lets up. But”—he gave her a long, heated look—“you’re welcome to wear anything I have—or nothing at all, if you choose.”

  “Thanks. I did find the suit I was wearing when I came, but it seemed awfully heavy. Did you get wet earlier?”

  “Wet? A little. Why?”

  “Well, just now, in the stairway, I thought you’d changed clothes. Were you wearing something blue?”

  “In the companionway? Look, Goldilocks, you’re still weak or something. I’ve been right here, except for my attempt to find the dock.” His voice sharpened again, revealing his tension.

  “Mr. Rogan, I’m very sorry. I seem to keep making you angry, and I’m not sure why. Maybe we got off to a bad start. Let me introduce myself. My name is Carolina Evans.”

  Bad start? He had to bite back a colorful swear. She had inserted herself in his solitary, orderly life as if she’d been expected, and now was embroidering on her plans by pretending that they shared some secret. Still, there was something utterly compelling about her, something that appealed to the protective side of his nature. He felt responsible for her, and at the same time guilty over the desire she fostered without even knowing she was doing so.

  “So, Carrie,” he said awkwardly, in an attempt to regain control of a situation that seemed to deteriorate into pure lust every time they touched, “can you cook?”

  CARRIE?

  The table rocked violently for a moment. Carolina and Sean caught the edge and steadied it.

  “Did we hit something?” she asked.

  There was a puzzled expression on Rogan’s face as he stood, glanced out the window, and turned back. “Must have been a swell, or maybe a log. Don’t worry, the Butterfly is safe.”

  Their gazes met and caught for a long moment. “I knew it would be, Mr. Rogan. That’s what drew me here. But I didn’t expect you, or intend to—I mean I should thank you for caring for me.”

  “Forget the ‘mister.’ I think we’re past that. I apologize for what happened. I don’t usually sleep with a woman who doesn’t even know I’m there, but you’d turned into an icicle, and I didn’t know any other way to warm you. Then I fell asleep too.”

  She took another sip of coffee and felt its heat slide down her throat. “Funny, I wasn’t cold when I woke up.”

  Was she kidding? If they’d been any warmer, they’d have incinerated the sheets. But the uncertainty in her eyes cut through his hormonal reaction and he forced himself to back off.

  “I was pretty warm, myself. If I’d known what I was doing, I wouldn’t have. I wouldn’t want you to—Hell, I don’t know what I mean. But if you were offended, I’m sorry!”

  “I don’t think I was,” she admitted in a low, shy voice. “I think that I rather enjoyed it. Do you bring women here often?”

  Sean leaned forward, caught the edges of the shirt that dangled loosely on her, and drew them together under her chin so that the opening covered the pulse in her neck. “You’re the first woman to ever set foot on board the Scarlet Butterfly, Carolina, but I didn’t bring you.”

  “But I distinctly remember. I got very dizzy. I’m not accustomed yet to doing much walking, and it was so hot. Just as I collapsed, you caught me, and I must have fainted. I vaguely remember you undressing me and putting me in your bunk, then nothing else until you—I—this morning … Was that—what you were doing—foreplay?”

  Sean felt the air whoosh out of his lungs. Here they were standing almost thigh to thigh in his tiny galley, and she was looking up at him as if he had all the answers and she needed every one of them.

  “Ahh, Carolina. This is a very strange encounter. You must have dreamed it. I think you have a vivid imagination. You’re—you’re little more than a child, and you’re much too trusting.”

  “I’m twenty-five and I know I’m too trusting. I’m a sucker for Girl Scout cookies and band candy. I buy chances on new cars and every time Ed McMahon sends me a letter, I subscribe to another magazine. I mean I’d feel terrible if I won the grand prize and hadn’t ordered anything. Wouldn’t you?”

  Sean didn’t even know how to answer. If she’d feel bad about winning a contest when she hadn’t bought a magazine, how would she feel about building up to making love and then stopping short of the final act? He swallowed hard as he realized that she was still waiting for an answer.

  “That was foreplay. Haven’t you made love before?”

  “No, at least not anything like that. What you did was very … stimulating. My only experience was more like a poor simulation.”

  “Simulating foreplay?” Only experience? That idea blew his mind. What was she saying? That she’d only had one lover and he’d been inept? That was something Sean had never been accused of. And if the reaction he’d gotten was any measure of it, Carolina was a lady more than capable of responding.

  She was studying him earnestly. “I think I’d like to discuss this further, Captain. I’ll need to think about it. Would you like some breakfast?”

  Sean simply stared at her. He wasn’t certain that he’d answered until she turned to the refrigerator.

  For Carolina, the offer to cook breakfast for Rogan was a deliberate attempt to direct his attention to another subject while she got her emotions under control. It didn’t work.

  All conversation stopped. Sean was still trying to interpret the concept of simulated foreplay.

  Watching her move from the tiny gas cookstove to the table and back was like watching a child discovering the pieces of a dollhouse and arranging them in their proper places. She picked up the frying pan and ran her fingers across the bottom as if she’d never seen one, pleasure bringing a smile to her face. The small refrigerator beneath the counter brought another smile, as did the eggs she examined as if she’d never cracked one before.

  “I’ll make the toast,” he said, finding something on which to focus his attention. He ought to be asking for answers. He ought to be building a raft so that he could take her back to town. But he couldn’t forget the pallor of her skin, the fragility of her body, the heat that had flared between them. She wasn’t well, he rationalized, and he couldn’t subject her to the stress of getting back to civilization.

  “Oh, is there a real toaster?”

  “No, I just butter it and brown it in a skillet.”

  That was a mistake. One person could stand between the table and the stove, but two people filled every cubic inch of space, provided they were joined at the hip and willing to move in tandem.

  Awkwardly, Carolina cut chunks of cheese in the pan.

  “Are you going to put some butter in there first?” Sean asked.

&
nbsp; “Oh, of course.” She added a slab of butter and cracked the first egg directly into the pan, then the second, realizing her mistake when several pieces of shell fell on top of the yolk. It looked so easy when she watched Cook do it. But capturing and retrieving the broken shell was hard.

  “Aren’t you going to season them?” Sean asked.

  “I’m not allowed to—” She stopped short, took the salt and pepper from the cabinet, and nodded. “Of course I’m going to season them.” She shook the paper salt carton generously, studied the pan, and added more.

  After vigorously stirring the mixture until she’d turned it into mutilated yellow slivers, Carolina divided the eggs on the plates, where Sean’s toast had already been placed. He refilled their cups and took his seat on the only bench, indicating with one hand that she could share the space.

  There was a moment of discomfort as she arranged his shirt so that she could sit without exposing more of her legs than necessary.

  “I hope you don’t mind my wearing your shirt.”

  “Not at all,” he said, and took a large bite of eggs and cheese. “Feel free to wear as little as you like. That’s what I do.” He didn’t know whether it was the overdose of salt, the crunch of eggshells, or his hormonal reaction to the thought of what was beneath that shirt that caused the food to lodge in his throat, but he swallowed wrong and began to cough.

  “What’s the matter? Are you choking? I’ll help you!”

  Carolina moved quickly behind Sean and caught his massive chest in her arms. Taking a deep breath, she gave a sudden tight squeeze that closed off the small amount of passageway still allowing him to swallow.

  The woman was trying to smother him, attempting and failing. She had about as much staying power as a ladybug. He began to laugh.

  In the melee that followed the bench tipped, throwing Sean backward and catching Carolina beneath him on the floor.

  “Man the torpedoes, full speed ahead!” Bully squawked, flapping his wings wildly.

  By the time the cabin quit lurching, Sean realized that Carolina wasn’t moving. She wasn’t speaking either. He whirled over, catching his elbows on the floor on either side of her.