Kiley watched her lover pacing the deck of The Connemara like the caged panther to which Dr. Carstairs had once likened him. His dark hair blew about his handsome face, tugging at his white silk shirt, but he seemed not to notice.
“Not black?” she had asked as he tucked the shirt into the waistband of a pair of gray slacks.
“This is my mother I am meeting,” he answered, reaching up to remove the gold earring from his earlobe. “I want her to meet Patrick O’Reilly, not Julian St. John.”
“Would you prefer I call you Patrick then?” she asked.
He had looked around at her. “Do you mind?” he inquired.
“No,” she answered. “I haven’t been sure whether to call you Sean or Julian or just plain old Sugar Buns.” She grinned.
He rolled his eyes. “You’d better not,” he warned then his lips twitched. “At least not around my mother.”
As she watched him prowling the deck, she could not help but admire the sensuality of his movements. There was something primal—almost predatory—about the way he moved and she was reminded of the power and wealth this man wielded. One phone call had precipitated the removal of all her worldly goods from Iowa in the space of a few hours’ time. The cost must have been astronomical but was most likely pocket change to a man like Julian. She corrected herself—like Patrick O’Reilly.
“They will begin building our home on the far side of the island next week,” he had told her.
“Our home?”
“You don’t think I would expect you to live at the resort, do you?” he queried.
“Even if I would prefer to do so?”
Her lover’s eyes had narrowed dangerously. “Why? So you can look at naked men all day?” He shook his head. “I think not.”
“So I could be near you?” she countered.
He thought about that then cocked one shoulder. “Flirt with even one helper, sweetness, and I’ll have his balls on a tray to feed to my pet piranhas.”
She blinked. “You have pet piranhas?”
“No flirting,” was all he would say.
She now saw him walking toward her from the far end of the deck and smiled.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said as he reached her. “I’m going to have them go through with building our house.”
Kiley groaned. “Patrick, come on. I’m not going to—”
“I can’t have my mother visiting me at the resort,” he said. “I can’t leave here and I would like to spend holidays with her.” He leaned against the rail. “When I spoke with her this morning, she said there was no reason she couldn’t come for Christmas and Thanksgiving, Easter, the Fourth of July.”
“Yours and her birthdays,” Kiley suggested quietly.
“Those, too,” he agreed with an emphatic nod. “The yacht is acceptable but I’d like to have a porch to sit on, just looking out to sea, talking.”
“If that’s what you want, then that’s what we’ll have.”
“And a nice place for you and me to say our vows,” he added.
Kiley’s mouth dropped open. “W-what?”
Before she could react, he lowered one knee to the deck and reached for her hand. “Silkeen Marie Trevor, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” he asked.
“Don’t you ever call me Silkeen again,” she insisted, her eyes flashing. “How did you find out—?”
“Kiley Marie Trevor,” he interrupted, “would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
In the last twenty-four hours, she had come to realize she had fallen for this passionate man. She wanted nothing more than to spend her life with him. While she appeared to be thinking over the offer, he reached into his pocket and pulled out an engagement ring.
“It’s only two carats,” he explained as he paused with the ring just touching the nail of the third finger of her left hand. “If you want something larger, I—”
“No,” she was quick to say. Ostentation had never appealed to her and diamonds larger than three carats had always seemed vulgar. Two carats was just right. “It’s perfect.”
He arched a thick dark brow.
“Yes,” she said, tears glistening. “Oh, yes.”
He slid the ring onto her finger then got to his feet, folding her into his arms and sealing their bargain with a kiss that made the toes in her sandals curl. She was only marginally aware of a strange sound above them as the man she loved pulled back from her.
Overhead, the sleek black helicopter from the Cay was flying parallel to The Connemara and the owner of Mistral Cay looked up. The chopper pilot gave his employer a thumbs-up then banked the expensive machine away from the ship.
“My mother should be here in a moment or two,” Patrick O’Reilly said over the thump-thump-thump of the helicopter’s blades. He turned so Kiley’s back was to him, her body pressed closely to his.
Off to the starboard side of The Connemara, the yacht that had brought Kiley to the Cay sailed toward them.
She wrapped her arms over his, feeling the tremor shake his body.
They stood like that until the other yacht was riding at anchor beside them. A mile or so out to sea, the helicopter patrolled the air, making slow, lazy circuits. On the water, four runabouts carrying armed men secured the waves. Onboard The Connemara, the crew was armed to the teeth.
“I’ll not take any chances with you or my mother,” Patrick had pronounced.
That he feared trouble from Celeste was evident in the way his eyes kept scanning the horizon.
“There she is,” he whispered.
An older woman was being helped into the yacht’s lifeboat. Beside her, a man looked across at them and waved. Turning to the woman as he joined her in the lifeboat, he pointed to where Patrick and Kiley stood.
“She’s beautiful,” Kiley said softly.
“Yes,” Patrick agreed.
It seemed an eternity before Fay Lynden and her husband Bradford were brought onboard The Connemara. When at last she stepped onto the deck of her son’s yacht, she seemed unable to go any further. She stood there with her husband’s arm wrapped securely around her shoulder.
Realizing the man she loved did not seem able to move either, Kiley eased his arms from her and walked to the Lyndens. She put out a hand. “I’m Kiley Trevor, Mrs. Lynden.”
Fay took the young woman’s hand then pulled her into a very strong embrace. “Thank you,” she said forcefully. “Thank you so much for finding my son.”
“Yes,” Bradford said, patting Kiley’s arm. “We appreciate all you’ve done.”
Fay released Kiley but still seemed unsure of herself. She was facing her son, both of them smiling at the other, even though neither seemed able to traverse the distance between them.
“What would you say to a nice tall Tom Collins, Mr. Lynden?” Kiley asked, threading her arm through his.
“I’d say lead the way,” Bradford chuckled.
Kiley kept up a quiet conversation with Bradford, introducing him to Henri as they made their way into the interior of the yacht.
* * * * *
Alone on the deck, mother and son took a hesitant step toward another, stopped almost in unison then laughed together at their nervousness.
Fay opened her arms.
Her son hurried to her.
He enveloped her in a hug that could have crushed her had she been of less stalwart stock. Her tears mingling with his as she brought his face to hers to kiss him lightly on the lips, she heard his low whimper of hurt.
“It’s all right now, Paddy,” she said, bringing his head to her shoulder though he towered over her. “Mama’s here, baby.”
His body was shaking with the force of his sobs. He wanted to drop to his knees and hold onto her, press his cheek to her belly, lower his head to her lap. He wanted to feel the gentle stroke of her hand on his hair and hear her crooning to him as the faceless woman of his memories had for as long as he could remember.
* * * * *
“I thought she’d wear a hole in the floor of the ship,” Bradford said after taking a long sip of his frosty Tom Collins.
“Him, too,” Kiley laughed.
“He was as nervous as a long-tail cat in a room full of rocking chairs,” Henri put in.
“Everything’s gonna be okay now,” Bradford predicted with a sigh.
“Let’s hope so,” Henri said, casting Kiley a quick look.
“She’s not in the best of health,” Bradford told them, “but I think seeing him is the best medicine she could get.”
As the two men talked, Kiley left the bar and with drink in hand walked to the open doorway. She saw Fay leading her son to a brace of deck chairs. They sat down on the chairs, facing one another, holding hands.
It seemed too intimate a moment upon which to be spying but Kiley felt protective of this man—even though she was relieved things were going as she had hoped.
* * * * *
“Were they good to you?” Fay asked and her hand tightened on her son’s.
“I had the best of everything,” Patrick answered. “The best clothes, the best school. I never lacked for anything money could buy.”
Vividly aware her son had not answered her question, Fay looked out across the waves. The conversation she’d had the day before with Greg Strickland was still fresh in her mind.
“He’s wanted in Louisiana for murder and the police are pretty sure he hired a man to kill his uncle, Sir Clive Bellington,” Greg had told her. “So far, they haven’t been able to prove it but there’s a detective on the case who won’t stop until St. John is brought to justice.”
“Do you love her?” Fay asked, returning her gaze to her son.
“With all my heart,” Patrick answered.
“Does she love you?”
“Yes, ma’am. She’s agreed to marry me,” he said with pride shining in his tearful eyes.
“How wonderful. Congratulations. Then I see no reason why you would need to ever leave your island,” she said.
Patrick swiped at a tear. “Mama, I can’t leave. I—”
“He was a son of a bitch,” Fay said, breaking off his words. “I thought I loved him but he’d beat me in places where the bruises wouldn’t show. If your grandfather and uncles had ever seen me bruised, I think they would have saved me the trouble of putting a slug between his eyes.” She held her son’s stare. “I have no doubt he’d have wound up killing me one day. Some men just plain deserve killing.” She squeezed his hands. “Don’t you think so, Paddy?”
He understood what she meant and nodded. “You know about my past,” he said.
“I know it doesn’t matter. Sometimes we do what we have to in order to survive, Paddy. Sometimes we do it to protect others and sometimes to protect ourselves.”
“Even if we’ve done things that are unforgivable?”
“You are my son, my child. If you have done things that were necessary to keep yourself safe, there is nothing to forgive.” She took his hand and brought it to her cheek, turning her face to kiss his palm. “I never stopped looking for you and not once have I ever stopped loving you, Paddy.”
Her gentle words and loving eyes were his undoing. He broke down again, sobbing like a child. His shoulders shaking, he bent over in his pain, his arms wrapped around his chest.
Fay slipped to her knees beside him and drew his head to her shoulder. She encircled him in a tight embrace then began humming the Connemara Cradle Song, rocking him in her arms as he released the years of hurt and sorrow that had been his life.