She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. He brought home a few waverers to talk to them where they had no chance of getting away. “You are not content then with stealing from me my name. “There are two things to be done,” he said softly to himself. “Good-looking rascal she met at Worthing. I—I don’t understand,” the man faltered wearily. She pulled at his tee shirt again, wishing to feel his naked chest upon hers. Don't unman him. Larry Beck did his best to the flares of her temper from rising.
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