Chapter 2

L illian stretched across the king-sized hotel bed. The salty ocean air came in short pulses through the yawning glass doors and the Hawaiian sands rushed right up to their lip. The draperies, which were parted on each side of this view, were calm last night when her husband John had drawn them open to gaze at the stars, but now they shuddered violently.

His hand lifted to brush the lock of hair from her eyes. “Lillian,” he whispered like a prayer.

The sound of his voice woke her fully. It was not the voice of the man in her dreams.

She cupped John’s face and drew him down for a kiss, partly because she wanted the unusual feeling her dream man’s voice had evoked to continue…partly because her chest burned with the guilt of spending the past eight unconscious hours with a man who was not her mate.

The breeze freshened once more, filling Lillian’s nose with the salt of the sea. It washed the dream from her mind, filling her with loss. For a long moment she basked in the memory of that dream.

She saw a fire crackling on a grate, and a light sweat dewing the skin of a beautiful man. His lips had met the corner of hers too briefly before they tumbled into the depths of a feather mattress. The fingers on her spine were rough and erotically unfamiliar.

When they were replaced by his mouth, she had gasped.

She could see him running.

Lillian slipped from between the snowy white sheets and padded across the thick carpet to the bathroom. She shut herself inside and leaned against the door, breathing hard. In the other room, she heard the television flick on and the broadcast of the morning news.

She trailed her fingers over the face of her reflection in the mirror. Her clear skin—other than looking green beneath the fluorescent lighting—appeared unchanged. She saw the same thick, wavy hair and slender frame. But when she lifted her eyes, she did not see the calm, grey sea that John claimed them to be. They were bright and wide, burning still from the dream.

But was it a dream? When she thought of the man who tumbled to the feather mattress with her, new images layered over those.

A speeding airplane, the white expanse of sky, and a man’s watch on a strong wrist.

A wrist that did not belong to John.

She twisted to see her spine in the mirror. Yes, the immortal tattoo was still there. The flowering vine tattoo had been part of her always.

She splashed her face with icy water and twined her hair in a rope over one shoulder. To the timeless reflection she added a splash of red lipstick and a delicate rope of pearls. But when she stepped into the lavender sheath dress, she called for John.

He appeared behind her at once. With over sixty years of practice, John could anticipate her every need. His fingers traced the curve of her spine, making her squirm with the memory of her dream and the man who had pressed his lips to that very spot.

“John,” she said, hoping her impatience passed as eagerness to explore the island.

In one swift maneuver, he had her zipped and turned into his arms. “You’re beautiful as always.”

She felt her face heat.

“I can still make you blush after over six decades.” He laughed and drew her into the suite.

The table for two was beautifully set with china and fine hotel silver. John guided her to a chair with a hand on the small of her back. When she stiffened, he ducked to see her eyes.

She had to push away that dream of another man touching her there. The only way to do that was to keep John from looking at her too close.

Like the gentleman he was taught to be, he held out the chair for her to sit and seated himself opposite her. As she lifted the teapot and poured the fragrant Chinese tea, his gaze never left her.

“You’ve forgotten your bracelets.”

Lillian stifled a gasp. Had she? She had never forgotten in all these years, and yet in her dream, her wrists had been bare.

That man had gripped them in one hand.

“You’re right.” She fought panic. “I’ll get them after breakfast. It smells wonderful.”

She brought the china teacup to her mouth and took a scalding sip. John’s long dark brows were knitted as he studied her. His hair flopped into his smoldering black eyes. Where John was dark, her dream man was light.

As she thought of him, her mind was flooded by new images, a newspaper flapping in his face and long, artistic fingers tapping his knee. Those fingers….

“What’s on the agenda today?” She had to stop this. It was only a dream. She glanced out at the baking sands. She longed to stretch beneath the sun and sleep. A sailboat drifted past and she heard the faint cry of ocean birds. “Beach?”

“I have something else in mind.” He rose from the table and offered her his hand. “Shall I get your sweater?”

“Oh, please.” She waved a hand. “Who needs a sweater in Hawaii?”

While he waited, she enclosed herself in the bathroom once again. As she snapped the wide silver cuff bracelets onto each wrist, she stared hard at her eyes in the mirror.

You must stop this at once, Lillian.

When she emerged, she hoped her face didn’t reflect the erratic beat of her heart.

At her appearance, John shuddered as if a frigid wind had gusted through the suite.

She lay a hand along his hot cheek. “Are you cold?”

He released a short huff of laughter. “Ghosts walking over my grave.”

They spent two heartbeats reading each other’s eyes, and then Lillian looped her arm through his and allowed him to lead her off into the sunlight.

* * *

Lillian strolled around the USS Arizona memorial, giving each and every plaque attention. The silence pressed on her eardrums and created a stupefying vacuum.

Why were they visiting this monument? Over the decades, she and John had visited so many sites of burial and death. He had evaded much gunfire in his centuries as a soldier, but never had he mentioned being a participant in World War II, never brought up the bombing of Pearl Harbor.

Behind her, his breath rasped as if he were escaping the very gunfire that had washed that ship from the earth’s surface.

Every decade he liked to revisit the spots where he’d buried his friends. From the Civil War through WW II, he had lost many. Outlived them all. Pondering his immortality—with a certain splash of accompanying survivor’s guilt—was a big part of his reason for the visit. And yet, this trip was different in many ways. He wore his strain like a military uniform.

Yet…they’d never visited this memorial before.

She focused on the names again.

“Howdy, ma’am.” The honeyed southern drawl made Lillian freeze. The voice—the intonation and inflection—were so familiar. She rifled her memories, pushing the walls of her mind, willing recognition.

John forgotten, she examined the man from beneath her lashes.

No, she didn’t know him, had never known him.

She returned to reading the lists of names. But that phrase continued to rotate through her brain like a gleaming brass key she couldn’t catch. “Howdy, ma’am. Howdy, ma’am.”

The key whooshed past. Her mind filled with muddled images of being pressed into the damp earth, the scent of fresh grass filling her nose, her lungs filling with laughter, and a cowboy hat tumbling to the ground.

She folded her arms over her torso to still the fluttering in her stomach. Her senses were playing tricks on her. She smelled grass, the sterile, unfamiliar smell of the memorial and the musky cologne of last night’s dream man all mixed with the salt of the sea. She started to tremble.

The crackling loudspeaker interrupted the silence and John jerked forward to claim her hand and lead her off to the shuttle that would take them on their next leg of the tour.

Chugging across the silvery ocean waves, the tourist with the drawl chattered to his family while John held Lillian’s hand. The sun was a hot glare on the water and gave her an excuse to drop her eyes.

As she entered the shrine room of the USS Arizona Memorial, her mind was invaded by more images. Lines of men in crisp white like so many teeth on the face of the gigantic vessel and a sun-filled kitchen, a porcelain jug brimming with exotic flowers.

She scanned the room. She needed out. A small bead of perspiration trickled down the base of her neck. John’s hand clamped her to his side. His heavy breathing indicated he was experiencing memories of war, but she slipped her hand free of his hold and strode across the space.

The plaque on the far wall drew her like seismic pull. But the wave of energy caused by the sudden breaking of earth’s rock did not compare to the wrench Lillian felt. Between her and the engraved letters, a fine thread hung. If someone passed between her and the tablet, the tie would be severed and she would be injured. That invisible cord ran straight to her heart.

The southern drawl echoed in her ears as the tourist spoke with his family.

“Have you found granddaddy’s name yet?”

“We’ll get some pictures of us over there in that spot of sun.”

“I’m getting hungry.”

Her fingertip traced the name etched in marble. The cadence, when she said it in her head, was good. It was familiar.

Robert Albright.

The gasp made her whirl, the name forgotten. John’s jaw was locked, but she knew he had issued that sound.

Her high heels clicked as she rushed to him. She leaned into his arms, feeling shakier, unbalanced. His expression was twisted yet plastic like a soda bottle tossed into flames.

She tuned out the tourist’s drawl and the marble plaque and the name Robert Albright, concentrating solely on John. His eyes were glazed as he stared at the tablets of names. She began to search the names for one that she may recognize from his painful past. But deep down, she felt an uneasy ripple, knowing if she cared to delve into her own consciousness, the name could be plucked from her own memory.

* * *

The spiny sea creature relaxed upon Lillian’s plate, so long that its scaled tail dangled off and touched her silverware. John eyed it and edged his plate away. She tossed her long braid over her shoulder and laughed. She loved seeing his disgust when she tried a new dish. She cracked into the shell and began spooning out the flesh. He averted his eyes.

The outdoor café was situated off the beach, but the ocean was always a warm neighbor in Oahu. The breeze blew straight at their faces, drying the sweat that slicked Lillian’s skin.

“It looks like rain,” John commented.

“So?”

“We’ll have to run for cover.”

“Why?” she asked around a mouthful of seafood. “My flower needs water.” She tipped her head up to the heavens as if to water the bloom she often wore tucked behind her ear.

He continued to dart glances at the grey clouds. The table vibrated as his knees bounced. His fingers drummed the top. She knew he needed to move, and soon.

For John, walking was essential. As a child in colonial Virginia, he had walked out of necessity. As a soldier his feet had carried him from battle to battle along the east coast. And later, when a horse or train or automobile became available, he said his legs were restless. To walk was to commune with the world, to be part of the whole. And a man who had spent over two centuries walking the earth must remain connected.

Minutes later they meandered toward the inner village. The mist dampened her hair and caused it to frizz about her temples. When the wind struck her full in the face, the wisps blew into her eyes.

Suddenly John stopped walking and spun her into his arms. He tenderly brushed the curls away and moved in with exquisite slowness, lips lowering inch by inch. Lillian shivered at his rough, unshaven jaw and sweet, searching kiss. She swayed against him, one hand lifting to grip his shirt front. The heat of him spread through her and sizzled down to lodge between her thighs. His taste alone could ignite her need. Couple that with his thorough tongue kiss and she was trembling for more.

He smiled into her eyes, anchored her to his side and continued their walk. As they strolled, he hummed a Mozart piece she’d heard him play many a time. When John’s fingers were set to the piano keys, he commanded the room. At the last party they attended, their host begged John to play. He threw his tuxedo tails over the piano bench and captivated the audience.

Lillian leaned against the piano to watch, memorizing the coal black hair of his jaw against the crisp white shirt he wore. The sight of his capable fingers rippling over the ivory keys brought her desire to the surface. She wriggled from her panties, looped them off her high heels, and dropped them into the pianist’s tip jar.

John’s eyes hooded and a rakish grin spread over his handsome features. When he’d finally gotten her in his clutches, they had combusted.

Wandering along the quaint streets together, Lillian’s head swung side to side, taking in the older houses that bore American flags and tropical plantings. She couldn’t see the blue-grey of the ocean from here, but the sound of breakers against the sands reached her. The feeling of déjà vu touched her too, and she drew to a halt.

The house before her was deep sea blue with white wooden shutters. A spattering of flowers grew beside the narrow steps. Without a second thought, she climbed the stairs and rapped on the door.

“Lillian?” John’s voice was faint, strangled.

“I….I think I know who lives here,” she said without turning to him.

Before she could knock, the door swung inward and a young boy faced her. Could he help her? She shook her head in confusion. A glimpse at the sunny yellow kitchen beyond dizzied her. The ghostly imprint of a porcelain jug of flowers flickered before her eyes.

“I have the wrong house.” She stumbled down the stairs. John caught her against him, and she felt a desperation in his touch that hadn’t been there before. Grip too tight, eyes crazed.

“What is it, John?” She yanked free of his hold and turned slow circles on the paved street. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. “What is it?”

Images crashed in on her like the far-off breakers, flipping through her mind rapid fire. Cowboy hat. Yellow kitchen. Jug of flowers. Feather mattress. Golden skin, golden hair.

Her lungs filled with a terrified scream, but before she let loose, darkness swam before her eyes, stifled her breathing.

He caught her before she hit the pavement.