She only comes close to me when I turn my attention from her to the gauges and dials on the console in front of me. "Is it later yet?" she says, pressing against me.

I shake my head, trying to keep my mind off the soft warmth of her body, the sweet smell of her, while I make sure the engines warm up properly, the systems all work.

Taking the wheel, I tell Elizabeth to jump off the Grand Banks, instruct her on how to disconnect the shore power and uncleat the dock lines. She glares at me, waits until I say, "Please."

Even then, she moves so slowly I'm tempted to do it myself. But I find I can't keep from admiring the catlike way she moves, grinning at her less-than-nautical efforts. When she finally finishes, I throw the boat in gear.

Elizabeth hops back on the boat as soon as it starts to move. Obviously aware of my gaze, she moves slowly on the bow deck, coiling and stowing the lines where I say, bending and twisting more than necessary, moving in such a way that her breasts seem to be on the verge of escaping the bikini's flimsy cups-the sweat from her exertions glistening on her mocha flesh, spotting the bikini, making it cling all the more where the skin is wet.

I stare, thinking of how salty she must taste.

Elizabeth looks back, laughs, cries out, "Peter!" and points behind me, "Watch out for that pole!"

My face flushed, I throw the motors out of reverse, push the throttles forward just enough to stop our rearward movement, complete our turn without striking the channel marker.

"Captain," she says, hands on her hips, "you really should keep your eyes on where we're going."

"You're not making it easy for me, you know," I say.

"Oh," she says, all innocence, toying with her bikini top, suddenly yanking it up, flashing me a quick glimpse of her firm mocha breasts, her dark brown nipples, then covering them. "I thought you weren't interested anymore."

I begin to frown at her but, somehow, I end up smiling. "I never said I wasn't interested."

"That's how you acted," Elizabeth says. She turns her back on me, looks forward as we glide past the other boats still tied to their docks.

I know she's punishing me for my earlier neglect, but still I almost gasp when she shouts, "You'll never get anything like this!"

Shocked, hurt, I begin to reply, then realize she's reacting to the leering gaze of an older, potbellied man, sitting on the stern of a catamaran at the end of the dock, an unlit cigar clamped in his mouth. His elderly wife, sitting beside him-a woman whose entire body seems to sag inside her one-piece, black bathing suit-follows the movement of our boat, shaking her head in disgust, not at her husband but at my wife.

Elizabeth pulls off her top, waves it at her, then as we pass, yanks her bottoms off too. The cigar falls from the man's mouth.

"Eat your heart out!" I yell, gunning my motors, creating a wake behind us that I know will still rock them long after we're out of sight.

On the deck Elizabeth spins and whoops, throws her bikini into the air. Then she faces forward and, spreading her arms and legs, lets the wind-created by our speed-caress her naked skin, and dry the sweat from her body. She stays that way, oblivious to the stares of any passing boaters, until we exit the harbor. When she finally turns and looks in my direction, I motion for her to come join me on the flybridge.

"You aren't mad, are you?" she calls out.

I look at her and shake my head. "How could I be?"

Elizabeth grins, rushes to the bridge. She hugs me, kisses me on the cheek and whispers, "I want you."

"Not yet," I say, working the wheel, guiding the boat through the worst of the ocean's swells near the shore.

She presses her naked body against my side, her skin cool from the wind-her nipples rock hard. I try to ignore her, tend to my piloting, but she rubs against me, kissing my neck, tugging at my clothes.

"Elizabeth!" I object.

She laughs, continues to tease me and I suck in a breath, and force myself to pay attention to the boat traffic around us, the movements of the waves. But the farther Jamaica falls behind us, the less able I am to concentrate, the more conscious I am of Elizabeth's presence beside me. Far before the ocean swallows the last remnant of the island's image, I give in, set the autopilot, tear off my clothes and turn all my attention to my bride.

"It's about time," Elizabeth says, disengaging from me, walking slowly to the bench seat at the rear of the flybridge. Perfectly aware that my eyes follow each movement of hers, she lies on the bench facing me. "Come, Peter," she says. "You've already made me wait far too long."

Staring in the daylight at her naked body, I whisper, "Now I guess you'll want me to make up for having you wait."

"I wish you would, Peter…"

Later neither of us bothers to dress. We lie holding each other, listening to the rumble of the engines, letting the sea wind wash over us, smelling the salt air, being lulled to sleep by the rolling rhythm of our passage.

Neither of us wakes until after dark. Without a word or a thought between us we change shape and take to the evening sky to hunt, to kill and to feed. Later we make love again on the rear deck of the flybridge and then give in to sleep, waking after dawn to find the sunlight burning down on us, searing our scales. We change to our human forms, go below deck to continue our slumbers and the next night we repeat the pattern, preying on the crews and living cargo of dilapidated smuggling boats, attacking the countrysides of poor islands, creating a host of new folk tales I'm sure will terrify many uneducated island children for years to come.

Time turns elastic. I lose track of the days, forget to check on our location. The books I bought go unread. Jorge Santos's file remains untouched in the drawer next to the lower wheel. Elizabeth and I sleep through the days. We hardly talk, share nothing of our thoughts and histories. Sometimes I worry, we only seem to care about the next hunt, the feeding that follows and the lovemaking after that.

Late one afternoon, before we've changed to our natural forms, before the sky has grown dark enough to allow us to hunt, Elizabeth comes to me, her eyes glistening from the tears she's holding back. "I tried to talk to Chloe just now-we've been mindspeaking each day… I couldn't reach her."

I nod, check the GPS, then wrap my arms around her-surprised at how tender her tears make me feel, pleased to have her come to me for comfort. "We're near Cuba," I say. "Too far for mindspeaking. Even we have limits. You'll have to write her from now on."

"It won't be the same." She pouts.

"No, it won't," I say. Elizabeth pulls away and I wish I knew what to say to her to ease her sadness.

Later we change and hunt, make love and sleep. We do the same the day after that. The Grand Banks and the ocean that surround it have become our only universe. I wonder what will lie beyond it.