Hours to Cherish by Heather Graham

undiscovered. He was very tall, and although lean, the expanse of his chest, the cords of his muscles strong in his arms, the trimness of his hips—all cast a peculiar spell upon her, one that frightened, one that excited.
    “Sorry,” he apologized, finally speaking. “I’m intruding upon a special moment, it seems. But you’ll have to forgive me for being a silent spectator. I’ve enjoyed watching you. I know the feeling. Salt, sea and breeze and wide-open spaces under the sun.”
    Cat returned his grin. She was feeling a little breathless, but a little bold. She was young and toned and slender but fully formed, and she knew she wore her emerald bikini with attractive grace. She also knew that look in his eyes. He found her more than just attractive; he found her sensually appealing as a woman.
    And for the first time, acknowledging that look sent a whiplash of excitement racing down her spine. It was a pleasant sensation … dizzying. It played upon her nerves, it seemed to steal her breath … but it was wonderful. She wanted to feel his fingers brush her flesh, to explore the sinewed contours of his shoulders with her hands, touch the short, crisp lion-colored hair that capped his head, that tufted over his chest. She had never seen a physique such as his.
    He chuckled suddenly, and the husky sound touched upon her as surely as caressing fingers.
    “Do you talk?” he murmured, “or are you just an ocean mirage, a mermaid who’s sprouted legs, a sea witch?”
    “No,” Cat replied, wanting to say something, wanting to do something to keep him near but feeling ridiculously tongue-tied. How strange, she had always led such encounters. “I’m Catherine Windemere.” She introduced herself, finally drawing away from his spell enough to speak. And she laughed at herself, reviving a spurt of cool self-confidence. “Who are you? You must be the spectre from the sea! My dad owns Heaven’s Harbour Lodge—and the docks. I’m usually aware of everyone on the island, and I know I haven’t met you.”
    His eyes narrowed slightly. “So you’re a Windemere! And your father must be Dr. Jason Windemere.”
    “Yes,” Cat replied with no surprise. Her father was known well beyond the realm of the Bahamas. Every other winter he toured for the more prestigious colleges and appeared on numerous academic talk shows.
    “Well …” the young man murmured, “I’m here to meet him. It’s been a pleasure to meet his daughter first.” He advanced toward her, extending a hand. “Clay Miller, Miss Windemere. And I did come from the sea. That ratty-looking cruiser out there is mine.”
    Cat touched his hand. The electricity that had hummed within her took a heated jolt. She was loath to let him go. Her mind was so attuned to his physical aura, to his blatant masculinity, that she barely remembered she had heard his name. Clay Miller … hadn’t he been making big waves in the salvage world? Yes, far, far away. He had brought up a World War II sub from the depths of the Pacific in almost perfect condition.
    He laughed again, a sound that was another caress. “Well, sea witch,” he murmured. “Are you willing to take me to your leader?”
    He slipped an arm around her waist. And where he touched, there was a fire.
    She would have led him anywhere.
    In the next two weeks Cat was to learn about another sensation—one not so pleasant.
    Jealousy was, in actuality, searingly painful.
    Clay Miller spent long hours with her father. The two men never tired of speaking about ancient wrecks, about the hazards of the ocean, the art of diving. It had been a long time since Jason Windemere had donned mask and tanks to explore the undersea world he could chart like a city block, but Clay’s fascination with his knowledge of history and shipping spurred him on with fresh life. Clay shared Jason’s belief; only thorough research of all pertinent history could lead a diver to any victim of the sea’s mysterious hold. Locating a treasure