Common sense quickly tempered her initial strong reactions. She hadn’t recognized herself in the mirror, why would Corish or Lars Dahl? Further, neither man could logically have expected to see Killashandra Ree on the beachfront at Angel Island. She relaxed from the tense half-poised stance she had assumed.
“Come on, you’ll want to catch a good one,” Keralaw said, tugging Killashandra by the sleeve. She paused, seeing the objects of Killashandra’s riveted attention. “Lars Dahl is very attractive, isn’t he? But he’s committed to the Music Conservatory – the first Angel Islander to be admitted!”
“The other one?” Killashandra stood fast, though Keralaw plucked urgently at her to move.
“Him? He’s been around the last few weeks. A pleasant enough man but . . .” Keralaw shrugged diffidently. “Come on, now, Carrigana, I want a live one!”
Now Killashandra permitted herself to be drawn, holding her breath as first Corish then Lars Dahl looked toward them. When there was still no sign of recognition from either man, Killashandra grinned, then waggled her fingers at them and brandished the wreaths invitingly. Lars Dahl smiled back, gesturing a good-humored rejection of her offer before he renewed his conversation with Corish.
As Clorish did not turn away, she swung her hips in her best imitation of a seductress, and cast one last longing look over her shoulder before Keralaw was hauling her through the crowd toward the approaching sailors.
Joyfully Keralaw deposited her garlands on a lean, brown-black man and, with a half-reproachful, half-apologetic glance at Carrigana, accompanied him toward a distant section of the beach in the gathering dusk. Other couples had the same idea while many more made for the barbecue area and the kegs of beer, and jugs of fermented polly fruit in jackets of woven polly fronds which were now being circulated. Many of the islanders had paired off, and the disappointed drifted back to the imminent feast, all still in the best of good spirits.
“What about garlanding me?” a male voice grated in her ear.
Killashandra turned her head toward the speaker, only far enough to catch the stench of his breath, before she deftly avoided his importunities with a giggle, slipping past a group of women. He paused there and someone less fastidious crowned him. Killashandra continued to glide forward and toward the shadows cast by the polly trees growing above the high tide line. The joyous sensuality of the islanders amused and frustrated her. Crystal resonance was slowly abating, and consequently her body’s normal appetites were returning.
Corish and Lars Dahl were still deep in conversation at the water s edge. She was level with them now, though shadowed from their notice and she could observe unobtrusively. She sank to the warm sand, the unused garlands fragrant in her loose grip. Ignoring the happy roistering at the barbecue pits, she concentrated on the two men.
What could be of such fascination to them in the midst of all this jollity? Her original instinct about Corish had been correct: he was an FSP operative. Unless she was fooling herself and his association with the impertinent Lars Dahl was a coincidence. She doubted that vigorously. Did Corish know that Lars Dahl had abducted her? And why? Had Corish taken some covert part in that kidnapping? Had Corish known who she was? Killashandra chuckled to herself, amused by the possibility although everything pointed to Corish having accepted her in the role she had played for him. Then she thought of how her earlier shipmates had reacted to the knowledge that she was a crystal singer. She doubted that Corish was less a man, particularly in his ease on the Athena. who would not make the most of his chances.
Keralaw had said that Lars Dahl was the first Angel Islander to reach the Music Conservatory. That explained his presence in the infirmary corridor, and his unconventional clothes, for the islanders appeared to prefer the browns and tans that emphasized their sunned skins. Why had he appeared so unexpectedly in Gartertown? Though he certainly maximized his opportunities. Had the original note of dissatisfaction with Optheria originated in these islands? That appeared logical, now that she had seen the different styles and standards, and had heard Elder Ampris’s disparaging remarks about the islanders’ early rebellion against the Optherian authoritarianism.
A shout went up by the long beef pit, and people surged toward it, platters in hand. The aroma was tantalizing and slowly Killashandra rose to her feet. A full stomach was unlikely to improve her understanding of the puzzle, but it wouldn’t hinder thought. Corish and Lars Dahl seemed to have succumbed to the enticement as well.
In that instant, Killashandra decided to approach her problem in a direct fashion. Altering her direction, she intercepted the two men.
“You’ve had your natter,” she began, mimicking Keralaw’s throaty drawl and speech pattern, “now enjoy. Angel’s a good island for feasting.” She flung one garland on Corish, the other about Lars Dahl’s neck, making her smile as seductive as possible. Before they could respond, though neither removed her flowers, she linked her arms in theirs and propelled them toward the pit, grinning from one to the other, daring them to break away.
Corish shrugged, smiled tolerantly down at her, accepting her impudence. Lars Dahl, however, covered her hand on his arm and, just then, their thighs brushed and she lurched against him, abruptly aware of receiving an intense shock. Startled, she glanced up at Lars Dahl, his face illuminated by the pit fires, his lazy smile appreciating the contact shock they had both felt. His long fingers curled tightly around hers with a hint of possessiveness. His blue eyes sparkled as his gaze challenged her. His arm fastened hers to his smooth warm waist as Killashandra candidly returned his glance. He sidestepped suddenly, pulling Killashandra with him so that she had to drop Corish’s arm.
“I’ve certainly done enough talking,” he said, grinning more broadly at the success of his maneuver and maneuvering. “Corish find yourself another one. You’re mine, aren’t you, Sunny?”
Corish gave a slightly contemptuous snort but continued on while Lars Dahl stopped, swinging Killashandra into a strong embrace, his hands caressing her back, settling into her waist to hold her firmly against him as he bent his head. The flowers were crushed between them, their fragrance spilling into her senses. With an inadvertent gesture of acceptance. Killashandra’s hands slid up his bare warm chest, her fingers caressing the velvet skin, taking note of the strong pectoral muscles, the column of his throat. His lips tasted salty, but firm, parting hers as he settled his mouth against her, and once again the shock of their contact was almost like . . . crystal. Hungrily Killashandra surrendered to his deft kiss, trying to meld her body against the strong, lean length of him. She altered her arms, stroking the silky skin of his hard-muscled back, all her senses involved in this simple act.
They parted slightly, his hands still caressing her, one hand on the bare skin beneath her shirt as she gently stroked his shoulders, breathless and unable to leave his supporting arms. If his embrace had begun as perfunctory, it wasn’t now. There was about his grasp a sense of astonishment, wonder, and discovery.
“I must know your name,” he said softly, tipping her chin up to look into her eyes.
“Carrigana,” she managed to remember to say.
“Why have I never seen you before?”
“You have,” she said with a rich, suggestive chuckle, amused by her own presumption, “but you are always too busy with deep thoughts to see what you look at.”
“I am all eyes now . . . Carrigana.” A slight tremor in his soft tone sent one through her body, as his hands renewed their grip, encouraging her body to conform to his.
Part of her mind recognized the sincerity in his voice while another section wondered how she could make the most of this encounter. All of her didn’t care what else happened to either of them if they could just enjoy this one evening. She was so hungry . . . it had been months since she’d made love.