“…didn’t even live that close to the water, but close enough. It was never sufficiently warm for swimming-but we swam anyway. And we caught hake and trapped lobsters and any other sea creatures stupid enough to come near a half dozen noisy kids…” Ryan threw up a hand at her patient-saint expression. “All right. All right. I’ve been talking too much. You can have your turn.”
“I just thought I’d point out that the North Carolina coast has a few goodies to offer that you Maine derelicts never heard of.”
“I doubt that.”
“My ocean,” Greer said firmly, “has got it all over yours. For one thing, there’ve been zillions of shipwrecks. You can hardly walk the sands anywhere around here without coming across a relic or two, memories of lost treasures and history. This whole coast was famous for its pirates, you know.”
“Which is why you’re dragging me all the way down to Okracoke Island, when we could have stopped anywhere for the last hour?”
“Hush,” Greer roared, and then mildly continued, “Okracoke is sacred. Blackbeard’s old lair. Although I’m convinced that as a group the pirates were terribly misunderstood.”
Ryan burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“You. And misunderstood pirates.”
“They were.”
“Only to you, Brown Eyes.”
She was about to explain indignantly, but didn’t immediately have the time. Within fifteen minutes, they were on the small ferry to the island, cars packed in front of and behind them. The little white boat curled and veered around endless channel markers, reminders of just how treacherous these shallow inlet waters could be.
But treacherous was hardly the mood of the day. Greer’s senses were busy, soaking in the flavor of the windswept, sun-drenched waters. Islands no bigger than a minute popped up from nowhere, coated with so many terns and gulls you couldn’t see the sand. The mood was wild and free. A hot breeze came and went, and the air smelled fresh, sharp, and as if exhilaration were a component of the oxygen. Greer smiled, and kept on smiling as Ryan carefully drove off the ferry a few minutes later and then zoomed inland.
From the look of it, the ancient village of Okracoke might not have changed in three hundred years. The harbor was chock-full of swaying, paint-peeling boats, nets and buckets were strewn on the wooden walkways, and houses clustered close to the water, all watched over in benevolent silence by a tall white lighthouse. In minutes, they were past the town, and suddenly there was nothing. A sand-swept road without people or houses, and endless green waters beckoning on both sides of them, inviting them to enjoy.
Ryan pulled the car off the road and stopped. They paused thirty seconds to look at each other and then moved. They tossed their shoes in the back; shucked off their clothes; grabbed towels; and the race for the water didn’t stop until their bare feet touched sand. Then, obviously, they had to dig their toes into the sun-warmed sand and savor a little.
Ryan draped an arm loosely around Greer’s shoulder, and they wandered at a much lazier pace to the water. Waves were thundering in, scooping up fistfuls of sand and hurling them back into the depths. Beyond the breakers was a submerged sandbar, the covering blanket of water pale green in the sunlight, barely wrinkled from the touch of the breeze.
“Nice?” Ryan demanded.
“Nice,” Greer agreed.
They walked. Shells speckled the high-tide line, sprinkling the sand with mauve and blue and sun-bleached white. Driftwood was scattered everywhere, sometimes in gnarled shapes that almost looked like people, but there was no one else around. High on the dunes, wild grape and sea oats waved sporadically, less to a wind than in the rhythm of the day.
In sheer laziness, they finally collapsed on the sand, utterly content simply to close their eyes and relax. The sun’s rays soaked into their skin like warm magic, not too hot. The sun wouldn’t have dared be too hot. Obviously, this was their beach, their sun, their day.
Not until then had Greer really been physically conscious of Ryan, of his long brown body and the bareness of it. His swimming trunks were relics, frayed and once blue. They didn’t cover much. He had a walker’s legs, his thighs angular, distinctly male. His chest was smooth and gold, his small male nipples flat and dark. There was softness to his skin, but not to his body.
She was aware that she’d chosen the wrong swimsuit to wear around him. Perhaps, though, no swimsuit had been invented that was safe to wear around Ryan. Too quickly, his eyes had darted from her right thigh to the left, catching that minuscule error in Marie’s design…only leaving Greer feeling that he didn’t find it an error at all. She lay on her back with her eyes closed and tried to ignore that building physical awareness, but it was difficult.
He was slowly, intently pouring sand around her navel and then brushing it off. “You promised me some history,” he accused. “I don’t see anything that looks anything like Blackbeard’s lair. In fact, there’s nothing here at all.”
Greer opened one eye. “That’s the problem with you Maine people. No imagination. We’re sitting right in the middle of his living room.”
“Ah.” Ryan leaned back and threw an arm over his eyes with a contented sigh. “It’s coming to me, slowly. The spirit of plunder and pillage.”
Greer chuckled. “You were born with that, McCullough.”
He squinted open one eye. “There isn’t a soul around. I’d watch what you say, if I were you.”
“Are you going to listen to me tell about the pirates or just continue to harass me?”
“If I have my choice-”
“You don’t.”
“I’m listening.”
“All these coves and inlets made ideal pirate hideouts. The cargo ships had deep hulls that grounded in shallow water, where the pirates had cutters, swift and maneuverable anywhere. They could hide easily, ducking into the inlets, or they could chase a cargo ship into unfamiliar waters. Diamond Shoals, for example…” Touch him, Greer. The impulse surged through her like a wanton breeze that didn’t want to settle down. His eyes were closed. His navel was an innie. She loved navels that were innies. There were specks of sand on his chest that needed brushing away. His skin was sun-warmed; she wanted to feel it.
“Are we getting to the misunderstood pirates yet?”
“Yes, you patronizing oaf.”
She was afraid. She’d been afraid from the instant she’d met him. He was a boldly sexual man, different from any man she’d been close to, and the vibrations were…wrong. But not at this instant. Just once, she kept thinking. Just once…
“Pirates have acquired this terribly unfair reputation,” Greer continued absently. “Exactly that plunder-and-pillage thing. I’m sure they were nasty enough on the high seas, but when they got into town I’ve always had the feeling they turned into genuine good guys. I’ll even bet the women lined up when a pirate ship came in. Where else were the ladies going to get their tea and sugar? And they would have been struck with broadcloth and homespun cotton if the pirates hadn’t brought in taffetas and silks and laces. And the pirates would hardly have risked alienating the coastal people. Who else would they have sold their goodies to?”
Again, Ryan opened one lazy eye. “Perhaps the women did line up when they saw a black flag flying. But just maybe they wanted to get a good look at a romantic devil with a black eye patch.”
The breeze combed through her hair like the caress of a lover. The sun beamed down, so warm, so soothing. Something about the island was infectious. At least the strangest fever seemed to be infecting Greer, because she couldn’t stop looking at Ryan. She couldn’t stop wondering what his sun-warmed body would feel like close to hers.