Stormy Vows - Iris Johansen [63]
Donovan seemed to have a similar disinclination to talk, and the transfer from the pickup to the helicopter was made in virtual silence. It wasn't until they were underway for almost twenty minutes that she realized from the mirrored shifting horizon that they were over water. The shock of the discovery jolted her sharply out of the haze of pain and weariness that had enveloped her since she had first seen Donovan at the motel.
“There's some mistake,” Brenna shouted over the noise of the rotors, pointing at the still waters of the Pacific below them.
Donovan's mouth twisted. “No mistake,” he said with a coolness that was belied by his taut, chiseled face and burning eyes. “We're going to the island.”
Brenna shook her head. “We can't,” she protested in confusion. “I have to get back to Randy.” Somehow in the bewilderment and exhaustion of that moment, the urgency to be with Randy, and reassure herself that he was blessedly safe and secure was paramount.
Donovan shot her a brief glance that had the force of a blow. “I realize how devoted you are to your son,” he said coldly. “He's being flown back to Twin Pines, and will be well taken care of. You, however, are going to the island,” he finished inexorably.
She shook her head in dejected bewilderment. She couldn't understand why Donovan was so displeased with her. It was not her fault that she had been forced to go with Chadeaux. Even if Donovan had been put to a certain amount of trouble on her behalf, he still did not have to be so irascible. Her mouth twisted wryly at the blatant understatement. He was obviously in a white-hot rage. But why were they going to the island, she wondered uneasily.
When she hesitantly ventured the question to the grim stranger beside her, she received no answer other than a contemptuous smile that did nothing to put her mind at rest.
He wasn't any more communicative after they had landed the helicopter on the island, and made their way through the woods, their path lit by the powerful beam of Donovan's flash-light. His pace was fast and relentless, and he made no concession for her smaller stride, merely propelling her ahead of him with a determination that gave her neither breath nor strength for protests or questions.
It was not until they had reached the chalet, and he had shut the door and flashed on the overhead light, that he turned to regard her white face, tousled hair, and rapidly heaving breast with cool appraisal. “You look like you could use a drink,” he said impersonally, crossing to the portable bar and pouring her a small brandy. He returned to hand it to her with an expressionless face.
She took a small sip of the amber liquid, and made a face at the obnoxious taste, though it did feel glowingly warm going down. After he had given her the glass, he went back to the stone fireplace and was in the process now of building a fire with swift economical movements. She watched him for a moment, then went over to the scarlet couch and curled up in one corner of it, her legs tucked beneath her like a small child. Indeed, she felt like a child, she thought wearily. One who had been punished unfairly, and who now still had to face the incomprehensible anger of grown-ups.
Donovan had succeeded in bringing a brisk crackling blaze to life, and he turned from where he was kneeling to regard her once more with that inexplicable air of cold antagonism. “Feeling better?” he asked carelessly, and as she nodded silently, he rose and removed his dark suit jacket and tie, throwing them both carelessly on the velvet arm chair. He rolled up his sleeves baring his powerfully muscled forearms, and, crossing back to the bar, made himself a drink.
He did not join her on the couch, but returned to the fire-place to stand with his back to the flames, his legs spread apart and the orange glow a fiery aureole around him. He looked one with the flames, Brenna thought hazily, the combination of the brandy and shock making her dreamily fanciful. He was Lucifer, springing from his