by Anne Stuart
He appeared out of the darkness with his usual graceful stealth, but she'd been listening for him and managed to control her instinctive shriek. If she could manage it, he wasn't even going to hear her breathe.
"I've turned on the fridge and the hot water. They're both run by gas, and it shouldn't be long before one's cold and one's hot. I've got a generator, but it's a pain in the ass to turn it on in the dark. It's only got enough juice to run a few lights, anyway, so we can make do with candles. And since you're so curious, yes, this is my house. This is where I live when megalomaniac billionaires don't keep me tied up and drugged."
She wasn't as good as he had been at keeping an impassive expression on her face, but she was making a halfway decent attempt. Enough to annoy him, which was reward enough.
"Tomorrow we'll find a way to get you off-island. In the meantime you might as well make the best of it. Feel free to tell me what a bastard I am. I'm expecting it."
Lord, it was tempting. But there weren't enough words to tell him exactly what she was feeling, and besides, silence seemed so much more effective.
For the first time she actually saw an emotion cross his usually impassive face. Even in the shadowed room she could recognize the sheer frustration, and she suppressed a satisfied smile.
"First you don't stop talking, then you don't start," he said bitterly. "Anyone ever tell you that you were a woman of extremes?"
He could certainly play rougher than that, and she wondered idly whether he would or not. She'd said so many revealing things to him when she thought he wouldn't understand that he could easily turn around and use them to goad her. She wasn't going to let them get to her. But she was interested to see what he'd use for a weapon. She already knew he could be absolutely ruthless when he wanted to be—the marks on her wrist were still there.
He turned on his heel, leaving the room, and she let a small, secret smile cross her face. Score one for the good guys, she thought. And then she remembered the observation room, the man lying drugged and helpless on a camouflage gurney, with Mick and Alf poking at him. And she'd been one of them. Maybe she wasn't one of the good guys after all.
He was back, sooner than she expected, with a pile of clothes and a towel in his hands. He dropped them in her lap. "These will have to do. You could try the shower now—the water's been preheated by the cistern, and if you don't mind it lukewarm…"
She rose and pushed past him, not even hesitating. She found the bathroom just off the kitchen, and she slammed the door behind her, in his face.
"You could at least thank me for letting you take the first shower," he called out through the door. "You've had one a lot more recently than I have."
Poor baby, she thought with a total lack of sympathy. She had every intention of taking as long as she possibly could. In a climate like this the water probably never ran cold, but she'd use up every bit of warmth she could.
She almost wept with pleasure at the first touch of the shower on her body. He had sandalwood soap and real shampoo, and she scrubbed every inch of her scalp and her skin, rinsed, and scrubbed again. Her legs were scratched from walking through the undergrowth, her wrist was still bruised. And then she looked down at her body. To her absolute horror she could see the imprint of his fingers on her hips, and she knew where that had come from.
She'd always bruised far too easily. If she'd hoped to wash all memory of that afternoon from her body, it was easier said than done. Some things wouldn't go with soap and scrubbing. Including her memories and emotions.
She heard him pounding on the door. "Are you going to take all night?"
She considered it. It would annoy him, which was a blessing, but it would only put off the inevitable. Once she emerged he'd take his own shower, and she could find her bedroom and lock herself in and he wouldn't bother her again. Tomorrow, in the light of day, maybe she'd bring herself to talk to him. Just a clipped sentence or two to tell him where she wanted to go. And where she wanted him to go, for that matter.
But for tonight, she was mum. Not one syllable was he getting from her. He'd had more than enough to last him—he should cherish the silence.
She kept the shower running from sheer malice when she finally stepped out into the steamy bathroom. Rubbing the mist off the mirror, she looked at her reflection. She was sunburned, of course, and her short hair was wild, curling around her face. Unfortunately she didn't look like the dignified, wounded ice princess. She looked rosy-cheeked and hurt and nauseatingly wholesome.
Not that he'd even notice.
He'd brought her some of his own clothes. Considering he was more than a foot taller than she was, the fit was far from ideal, but she didn't really care. No underwear, and she wondered whether he wore any. A pair of khaki shorts that sank to her hips and just barely stayed there and a T-shirt so huge it almost covered the shorts. She pulled up the shirt, staring at her body. The shorts hung low enough that she could see his handprints on her hips. It was a small consolation that she'd be the only one to know they were there. After all, she was the only one who would care.
The water was nice and cool when she reached over to turn it off, and she allowed herself one last wicked smile before replacing it with a somber, enigmatic expression worthy of the wild man himself.
He was sitting at the kitchen table when she finally emerged. He'd lit an oil lamp, and there was a plate of food waiting for her. Probably poisoned.
Unfortunately she was hungry enough to eat poison. "I went ahead and ate without you, since you seemed determined to take your sweet time," he said. "Any hot water left?"
She took a seat at the table, ignoring him. Canned peaches, tuna fish and crackers. It was all she could do not to fall on it like a starving orphan.
She schooled herself to wait. He rose, making an annoyed growl, and headed for the bathroom. "Don't think you can keep this up, Libby," he warned her. "When I get out of the shower you and I are going to have a long talk, whether you like it or not. You hear me?"
She picked up her fork and began to eat, studiously ignoring him. He slammed the bathroom door behind him.
It didn't take long to finish what was on her plate, and then she went scouting for more. Only warm beer in the slowly chilling refrigerator—what else would she expect? More cans of soup and fruit on the shelves, plus dried pasta, sauce and various non-perishables. She found a slightly ancient candy bar, ate that, and then wandered through the rest of the small house.
He hadn't lied—there was a guest room where she could safely barricade herself inside. Not that she had any illusions about her own desirability. Clearly her wild man would take what was practically forced on him, but he wouldn't have to settle for…for…
She wasn't going to let her mind go in that direction. The guest room was small, Spartan, with a narrow iron bed and a sagging mattress and a mosquito net overhead. Even that would be better than sleeping on the ground. Wrapped in his arms. Safe. Protected.
Stop it! It's over. Tomorrow you'll never have to see him again.
At the back of the house lay his bedroom. She assumed the French doors led out to a lanai off the back, but she wasn't about to take one step inside the portal to see. There was a bed, a big one, with mosquito netting, a chest of drawers, a table and some chairs. There were books piled everywhere—on the bedside table, on the floor, on the dresser, but not much else.
The only other room in the place was a small study. More books, another desk, a laptop computer. At the sight of the computer Libby felt a rush of absolute grief. She'd left hers behind, without a second thought, the top-of-the-line computer she loved more than anything. And she hadn't even thought twice about it.
It was one thing stepping into his bedroom, another into his study. She walked to the desk, checking to see whether there was a modem cord, when she had an unpleasant shock. He had the same computer she had.
It might not have the same bells and whistles, but it was still essentially the same model. She ought to claim it as recompense for saving
his life, except, of course, that he'd saved hers in return. And it was bad enough to be wearing his clothes. Using his computer would be much more intimate.
She realized the shower was no longer running. But she was. She wasn't ready for a confrontation. She was tired and emotional and nowhere certain she could manage to keep her icy demeanor if he really pushed her. Sooner or later she'd have to deal with him, she knew that. But she needed time, and space, before she was ready to do that. In the meantime, retreat was the best defense.
She closed her bedroom door behind her, shoved a chair under the doorknob and climbed into bed. The springs creaked beneath her weight, and the night air was beginning to cool off. She could hear him moving around out in the kitchen, and she held her breath.
She half expected him to pound on her door, to shake the doorknob, to demand that she come out and talk to him. She would have enjoyed answering him with potent silence.
But he didn't. The various noises in the household began to fade away, and soon there was no sound but the singing of the night birds outside.
Libby leaned over and blew out the candle beside her bed. And then she pulled the sheet over her, curled up into a little ball, and thanked heaven she was all alone in this narrow, uncomfortable bed.
Chapter Twelve
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Considering that he was finally back home, back in a place he thought he might never see again, John ought to have been in a better mood. He stretched out on his bed, the first real bed he'd slept on since he could remember, and told himself he was just restless. He needed privacy, and until he got rid of Libby Holden he was bound to feel on edge.
After all, he hadn't had a moment's peace in God knows how long. On impulse he got out of bed and crossed the bedroom in the dark. He hadn't taken his watch when he'd gone on his walkabout, but the battery was probably still working. He could find out the date.
He found it in the top drawer, pushed the button that illuminated the face and stared at it in disbelief. January 16. He'd flown over to Ghost Island on October 1. He'd been held for almost three months.
He dropped the watch back on the dresser, taking a deep, calming breath. Three months of his life had vanished into a drug- and pain-riddled haze. The question was, what was he going to do about it?
And of more immediate importance, what was he going to do about his unwilling guest? In fact, he'd kidnapped her twice. Not that he'd had any choice in the matter—it had been sheer instinct that made him grab her in the first place, but by the time they got to the plane he'd known there was no safety left for her anywhere near Hunnicutt's goons.
So he had her. What the hell was he going to do with her? His jaw still ached from the sock she'd given him—she was stronger than he'd realized. But then, she'd managed to keep up with him through the grueling trek, even scared and angry and embarrassed. She was a hell of a lot more resilient and resourceful than he would have thought a city woman should be.
He'd been hoping she would have calmed down by the time she'd had a shower and eaten. He hadn't even complained about the total lack of hot water—if tiny acts of revenge helped her salvage her pride then he'd put up with it.
But she'd already gone to bed when he'd emerged, hiding from him, and he hadn't had the energy to battle it. Tomorrow would be soon enough to sort things out.
Or so he'd thought, but now here it was hours later and he couldn't sleep. He kept thinking about her. About her annoying, endless chatter. About her infuriating silence. About her small, still body beneath his. And about how she said that pitifully inadequate sex act had been the best sex she'd ever had.
He threw himself back on the bed, furious with himself. He used to have more self-discipline than that. He needed sleep, and he'd always been able to simply will it to come. If something was distracting him he'd never had any problem dismissing it from his mind.
But Libby refused to be dismissed. She was haunting him, the dazed, vulnerable look on her face when he'd kissed her, the ridiculous bravado after they'd made love. Her fear when she'd heard Alf's plans, her fierce rage when he spoke to her. Emotions rioting through her, so many of them that he felt stunned.
He definitely needed to get rid of her, and fast. She was already disrupting his life far too effectively, and he was desperate to have his old life back.
He threw himself back on the bed, running a hand through his long hair. At least it was clean, untangled. His face was clean-shaven as well, and he wondered how she'd react when she saw him. Probably with complete disdain.
She liked her wild man. How would she like one who was marginally civilized?
The noise woke him. It was the middle of the night, but he was acutely sensitive to the sounds around him, and he heard the scrape of the chair, the faint creak as the guest room door opened, the soft sound of her footsteps. He held his breath, then released it in profound disappointment. She wasn't coming to his bedroom, she was heading for the living room.
Was she fool enough to try to leave? He wouldn't put it past her, and he certainly couldn't just turn over and try to reclaim sleep without making sure she wasn't going any farther than the living room.
The sound of the front door galvanized him out of bed, and he was out there in seconds, ready to haul her back, looking forward to an excuse to touch her. Because he knew what would happen when he did.
No such luck, though. She'd opened the door, all right, but she hadn't gone out. She was sitting at the desk, a candle lit against the darkness, staring down at something.
"I thought you were trying to sneak out," he said.
She must have heard his approach. She didn't turn, ignoring him as she stared at the thing in her hand. Belatedly he recognized it, and he felt the familiar defenses closing down around him. He almost turned around and went back to his bedroom, rather than answer her questions.
But she had no questions. She wouldn't speak to him, and it was making him absolutely crazy. He'd do anything to get her to acknowledge his existence, anything.
"That's a picture of my family," he said in the raw voice he was slowly becoming used to. He wondered if he'd ever regain his normal, deep voice, or whether it would always sound like gravel in a blender. "The last one taken."
She didn't react, but she still held the frame, looking down at it rather than back at him. He knew the portrait so well—his aunt had given it to him when he was seventeen. When he'd come back.
"We were supposed to be flying to Hawaii, making stops along the way. My father was a pilot, a damned good one, and he didn't trust flying with anyone else.
"My mother was a botanist with the University of Sydney, my father was a geologist, and I was their only child. We traveled everywhere together, until that last flight.
"We crashed. A storm came up, out of the blue, and we went down in a cove off Ghost Island. My parents died, I didn't. I was eight years old."
She still didn't turn. But she didn't let go of the picture. "I'd been a normal kid up till then. Maybe a little more traveled than most, but I liked the usual things. Sports and television and rock and roll. I wasn't really prepared for Ghost Island.
"I buried my parents," he said without emotion. "And I lived alone on that island for nine years. I don't know how I managed to survive, but I did, until stories began to circulate, and someone actually came looking for me. They brought me back to my aunt, my only living relative, and I was a national hero. The Wild Child, who'd survived in an Australian rain forest for nine years on his own."
She set the photograph down, but she still didn't move. He didn't know whether he was reaching her or not, didn't know what he really expected from her.
"I tried to make it back in civilization. I had lots of money—the insurance company had paid off on my parents' deaths and my aunt hadn't touched a penny of it. They'd paid handsomely for the death of their eight-year-old son, but once they found out I was alive they weren't in any hurry to ask for it back. I guess the insurance company figured they'd be liable for a lot more, given
my time on the island. They were the ones who'd had us all declared dead and the search for the missing plane called off."
He moved into the room, closer to her. Her hair was a riot of unruly curls around her head, and he started to think maybe he liked short hair on women after all. At least, he liked it on Libby.
"I was what they called gifted. I finished my basic schooling in two years flat, went to university and decided to be a botanist like my mother. After all, if there was one thing I knew, it was plant life—I'd lived off it, slept under it, worn it for more than half my life. But I couldn't do it. After six months in the city something snapped, and I took off. I bought this place, where I'm left alone, the way I like it. I go back to the city every year and teach a course or two, but mostly I live here and do research. And then I go off into the wilderness, for weeks, months on end. I think I'd go crazy if I had to be around other people without any break."
He came up behind her. He could smell the scent of his soap on her skin, see her small, fragile shoulders beneath his T-shirt, and it gave him a strangely possessive feeling. Strange, because he'd tried never to possess anything in his life.
"And my name really is John. John Bartholomew Hunter. Better known as Hunter by the few people who can put up with me long enough to become friends. Tarzan to my enemies."
Even that didn't get a response from her. She pushed away from the table, and he stepped back so she wouldn't bump into him. He was a man who lived by his instincts, and his instincts told him it wasn't going to be tonight. She had too many things to work through.
"I don't know why I'm bothering to tell you this since you obviously couldn't care less, but I figured I owe it to you. I'll see about getting you home as soon as I can. In the meantime, don't you think you could at least say something? At least look at me?"
Obviously not. She rose, blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. And with better night vision than he would have given her credit for, she skirted him, went back to her room and closed the door behind her. The sound of the chair being wedged beneath the doorknob brought a faint, bitter smile to his face.
