What the Waves Bring Read Online Free Page B

room with her feet curled beneath her, eyes glued to the nameless figure asleep in her bed. Was hers but one vigil
for this man? Did he have family somewhere? A wife? Children? Parents? Friends? Were they keeping their own, more painful watch for his return?
    The helplessness of the situation frustrated her anew. If only the telephone lines had not fallen, she might have called the authorities to tell of a missing person now found. Or she might have used her Apple to seek information on the man washed up on her shore. Wire services, newspapers—all would have been at her fingertips. But … the elements had conspired against her. Indeed, she smiled ruefully, the elements had been responsible for the very shipwreck that had thrown this man into her hands. Or had they? What had caused his accident? Only he could have the answer to that.
    And so she sat—thinking, debating, questioning, puzzling, then gradually wearing down as the needle-thin hands of her fine gold watch neared three o’clock. She finally acceded to the necessity of sleep, realizing too well that the new day which had already begun might be as trying as the last. Extinguishing the lamp in the living room, she stretched her cramped limbs on the well-worn cushions of the sofa and helplessly drifted into oblivion.
    The room was lit by broad daylight when next she moved. Though the wind had died down, the steady pelt of the rain brought the events of the past day to her consciousness. With a burst of awareness she bolted up and headed for the bedroom. She stopped abruptly on its threshold. The pillow still held the indentation of his head; the sheets were rumpled from his body. The man himself, though, was gone.

CHAPTER TWO
    In a flash she forgot any grogginess there might have been, as well as the hint of a cramp in muscles crunched up through the night. She headed for the kitchen and found it empty, then ducked into the spare room with similar results, finally winding up before the half-closed door of the bathroom. On impulse she lent her weight against the fast-yielding doorknob, then gasped at the sight of the lather-faced St. Nick returning her startled gaze in the mirror.
    For that moment of speechless suspension, their eyes locked and held. His were as dark as she had imagined them to be, though deep and strangely cautious. Hers were softer, warm with relief, more rounded in astonishment. Their periphery encompassed his bare chest, the towel at his hips, his hand stilled in mid-air holding a razor—her razor—and frozen in the act of shaving.
    â€œI’m sorry …” she whispered at last, blushing and awkward. True, this was her house and, given the condition of this man when last she’d seen him, she’d had every reason to worry. But to brazenly intrude on his privacy … In hasty retreat she backed from the small room and closed its door firmly.
    He stood so tall, she mused, stumbling her way to the kitchen, absently straightening the badly wrinkled clothes in which she’d slept. But of course this was the first time she’d seen him standing of his own accord. Before her own
five feet four, his height was impressive, not to mention the electrifying gaze, warming her even in memory.
    Her hands busied themselves with the mindless chore of setting a pot of coffee on to perk, as she reconstructed the image just seen. Standing before the sink, he wore nothing but that towel draped casually across the slimness of his hips. Little had been hidden; yet had she not seen it all yesterday? The difference, she reflected, was in the man himself. Yesterday, he had been helpless; today he was not. While she had slept—and a fast glance at her wrist told her that it was nearly nine-thirty—he had made himself at home, familiarizing himself with her facilities and supplies, even heating the water—her eye spotted the large pot drying face down on the counter by the kitchen sink—that would be necessary for