small compartment,
before sliding under the covers of the wide, comfortable bunk.
Normally she read for a while before composing herself for sleep, but
tonight the printed page failed utterly to hold her attention, and with a
sigh she let the book drop and switched off the lamp.
But still she couldn't rest. The sheltering darkness, the glimmer of the
stars beyond the porthole, the faint restful motion of the boat at
anchor seemed unable to work their usual soothing magic for her, and
she twisted and turned, pushing irritably in turn at the pillows, and the
covering sheet, as if she suddenly found their presence constricting
and intolerable.
Eventually she made herself lie immobile, forcing her lids to close
over her aching eyes. If she deliberately emptied her mind, then
surely some kind of peace would come.
What came instead was Nick's image, emblazoned on her mind,
burning in her consciousness. Memories seemed to control her, like
some relentless emotional treadmill, forcing her to relive every
moment she had spent with him over the last month. In her mind, she
heard every word, saw every look and gesture, rehearsed every tiny
unimportant incident. The stateroom seemed airless suddenly, her
body on fire, in spite of the flimsiness of its covering. Her dry lips
were moving, silently repeating his name over and over again, as a
soundless crescendo of yearning built up inside her.
At first, his voice saying quietly, 'Alison, are you asleep?' seemed no
more than another figment of her overwrought imagination. But the
softly determined rap on the door which accompanied it was real
enough, jerking her back to a full and startled consciousness. She sat
up, clutching the sheet against her in an instinctively protective
movement, as she stared across the stateroom at the locked door.
There was another knock at the door, and he spoke again, this time
with faint impatience. 'Alison?'
Her hand stole up and covered her lips, as she watched the handle of
the door turn quietly. When the door failed to yield, there was a
pause, then the handle turned in the other direction, only to be
released with an angrily frustrated rattle.
Not daring to move, ears straining, Alison heard Nick swear softly,
then move away. With a little gasp of relief she turned on to her
stomach, burying her face in the pillow, her heartbeat slow and
unsteady. The impulse which had led her to lock her door had been
well founded, it now seemed.
And the indications were that she had been over-optimistic in
assuming Nick would not have noticed her state of emotional
confusion. He was too experienced, his sexual perceptions far too
highly tuned to leave him unaware of that sudden, disastrous urgency
which had possessed her, and she had been a fool to suppose anything
differently.
Certainly, he had never come near her stateroom before. Not until
tonight, when he had recognised the unspoken needs in her and
decided to capitalise on them, she thought bitterly. Well, thank
heavens for the instinct which had prompted her to take her own
precautions!
But even as she ruefully congratulated herself on her foresight, the
lock rattled again, briefly and decisively, and as Alison propped
herself up on her elbow in stunned disbelief, the door swung open and
Nick walked in. He kicked the door shut behind him and walked over
to the side of the bunk, his brows lifting sardonically as he looked
down at her.
'No,' he observed mockingly, 'I didn't think you were asleep, in spite
of all that determined silence.'
She found her voice. 'How did you get in here?'
'The master key,' he said. 'Something you overlooked, in your sudden
passion for privacy.'
'It's not particularly sudden,' Alison said stonily. 'And up until now
it's been respected. Will you please go, and leave me alone?'
He hunched a shoulder negligently. 'After we've talked, perhaps.'
'Wouldn't the morning be a more appropriate time for conversation?'
He smiled, it
before sliding under the covers of the wide, comfortable bunk.
Normally she read for a while before composing herself for sleep, but
tonight the printed page failed utterly to hold her attention, and with a
sigh she let the book drop and switched off the lamp.
But still she couldn't rest. The sheltering darkness, the glimmer of the
stars beyond the porthole, the faint restful motion of the boat at
anchor seemed unable to work their usual soothing magic for her, and
she twisted and turned, pushing irritably in turn at the pillows, and the
covering sheet, as if she suddenly found their presence constricting
and intolerable.
Eventually she made herself lie immobile, forcing her lids to close
over her aching eyes. If she deliberately emptied her mind, then
surely some kind of peace would come.
What came instead was Nick's image, emblazoned on her mind,
burning in her consciousness. Memories seemed to control her, like
some relentless emotional treadmill, forcing her to relive every
moment she had spent with him over the last month. In her mind, she
heard every word, saw every look and gesture, rehearsed every tiny
unimportant incident. The stateroom seemed airless suddenly, her
body on fire, in spite of the flimsiness of its covering. Her dry lips
were moving, silently repeating his name over and over again, as a
soundless crescendo of yearning built up inside her.
At first, his voice saying quietly, 'Alison, are you asleep?' seemed no
more than another figment of her overwrought imagination. But the
softly determined rap on the door which accompanied it was real
enough, jerking her back to a full and startled consciousness. She sat
up, clutching the sheet against her in an instinctively protective
movement, as she stared across the stateroom at the locked door.
There was another knock at the door, and he spoke again, this time
with faint impatience. 'Alison?'
Her hand stole up and covered her lips, as she watched the handle of
the door turn quietly. When the door failed to yield, there was a
pause, then the handle turned in the other direction, only to be
released with an angrily frustrated rattle.
Not daring to move, ears straining, Alison heard Nick swear softly,
then move away. With a little gasp of relief she turned on to her
stomach, burying her face in the pillow, her heartbeat slow and
unsteady. The impulse which had led her to lock her door had been
well founded, it now seemed.
And the indications were that she had been over-optimistic in
assuming Nick would not have noticed her state of emotional
confusion. He was too experienced, his sexual perceptions far too
highly tuned to leave him unaware of that sudden, disastrous urgency
which had possessed her, and she had been a fool to suppose anything
differently.
Certainly, he had never come near her stateroom before. Not until
tonight, when he had recognised the unspoken needs in her and
decided to capitalise on them, she thought bitterly. Well, thank
heavens for the instinct which had prompted her to take her own
precautions!
But even as she ruefully congratulated herself on her foresight, the
lock rattled again, briefly and decisively, and as Alison propped
herself up on her elbow in stunned disbelief, the door swung open and
Nick walked in. He kicked the door shut behind him and walked over
to the side of the bunk, his brows lifting sardonically as he looked
down at her.
'No,' he observed mockingly, 'I didn't think you were asleep, in spite
of all that determined silence.'
She found her voice. 'How did you get in here?'
'The master key,' he said. 'Something you overlooked, in your sudden
passion for privacy.'
'It's not particularly sudden,' Alison said stonily. 'And up until now
it's been respected. Will you please go, and leave me alone?'
He hunched a shoulder negligently. 'After we've talked, perhaps.'
'Wouldn't the morning be a more appropriate time for conversation?'
He smiled, it
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