Wild Thing

by Anne Stuart

  So much for mending fences. What had he expected, that she'd weep over his childhood? He hadn't wept over it—hadn't wept over anything since he'd buried his parents twenty-five years ago.

  Which reminded him. Hunnicutt had the absolute gall to have bought the deserted island for his little experiments. He'd bought his parents' resting place, and even if John had felt any urge to forgive and forget his incarceration, he wasn't going to ignore that. As soon as he got rid of Libby he could concentrate on making Hunnicutt pay a suitable recompense.

  He'd do everything he could to get her off-island by tomorrow. There was only one small, bitter problem with that.

  He didn't want her to go.

  Libby was amazed she'd slept so well. It had to be late morning—the sun was streaming in the windows of her small room, and all was still and quiet.

  She really didn't want to leave the safety of the bedroom. She wasn't ready to face him… John…again. But she was starving, restless and unable to stay in bed a moment longer, and she steeled herself to deal with him. Just because she had to see him didn't mean she had to talk to him.

  She moved the chair and flung open the door defiantly. All for nothing. The kitchen was deserted. And so, her instincts told her, was the house.

  She didn't find the note until after she'd taken another long, blissful shower and stolen another set of his clothes. The marks on her hips had faded, but her wrist was still sore and bruised. Maybe she'd get over him when the bruises disappeared. Maybe not.

  He'd left the note by the picture of the young boy and his parents, the picture that had haunted her dreams. "Gone up island to see about getting you a way out of here. Be back tonight. John."

  She crumpled up the piece of paper and tossed it in the trash. And then for some reason she picked it out again, smoothing the wrinkles. Foolishness on her part—she was going to be out of there before long, and she shouldn't need anything to remember him by. But she tucked it in the pocket of her shorts, anyway.

  She was starving enough to try making scrambled eggs out of powdered egg and powdered milk on the gas stove. The results were surprisingly good. No Tab, of course, and at the moment she would have killed for any kind of pop, even an orange soda. She made do with coffee, taking a large mug of it out onto the front veranda.

  She dragged a wicker rocker over to the wide railing, propped her feet up and stared out at the ocean, cradling the coffee on her stomach. The sound of the waves was incredibly soothing, the wind rustled the palm trees overhead, and in the distance she could hear the cry of birds. She had probably never been anywhere so remote in her entire life.

  She should be anxious, restless, desperate to get back to people and civilization. Though she wasn't quite sure why. What people? She had friends, but mostly they'd been Richard's friends, not hers. The women she knew were either humorless workaholics or giddy airheads.

  She missed her family. She had that much in common with John—they were both alone in this world, no families left. But that was about all.

  She tilted her chair back, staring at the horizon. They must be somewhere near the Great Barrier Reef if she remembered her Australian geography, which was questionable. There was no denying that the climate here was perfect, the scenery gorgeous, the air heavenly. If she were to live here she wouldn't have nearly so Spartan an existence. She'd have electricity and a satellite dish for telephone and television and Internet connections. She'd have a much better variety of food, a less-intimidating library, and a fireplace for rainy days.

  The place could use a pantry, full of useful stores. A decent stereo would help matters as well. And closets—the house had no decent closets, and the sheets on her bed were practically threadbare. Something light, cotton, with flowers on it…

  She sloshed some of the hot coffee on her stomach, staining his T-shirt as she sat up abruptly. What the hell was she doing, planning her future? There was no future for her in a place like this, with a man like him. Even if he wanted her, which he obviously didn't, she'd have to want him as well, which was outside the realm of possibility. So the sex had been…quite nice. Obviously she'd chosen poorly in the past. Next time she wouldn't settle for messy and undignified. Next time she'd see if she could find a partner who could make her feel things. A partner like John.

  She slammed her feet on the porch. "Idiot," she said aloud, knowing he wasn't anywhere near to hear her voice. "Stupid, sentimental, irrational, romantic, impractical idiot. The sooner you get out of here, the better."

  There was no one there to disagree, only a small, insistent voice in her head, and she'd learned long ago to ignore it.

  She looked out at the waves rolling gently onto the shore. It was incredibly soothing, just sitting there watching the ocean. She could have sat there forever, for weeks, for months, for years. She could have sat there forever. With him.

  She might as well accept the fact that she'd been avoiding for the last twelve hours. Hell, she'd been avoiding it for longer than that, but those days didn't count. She hadn't even known what she was up against.

  The bottom line was, she didn't want to go. Didn't want to leave him, didn't want to leave this place. She wanted to go into the back of the house, take off all her clothes and climb into his big bed. She had the most insane desire to start cleaning, rearranging things, when she'd never been much of a nester in her entire life. She wanted this place, and this man, and she wasn't going to have, either. So she sat on the lanai, staring at the ocean, and let herself cry.

  Times like these called for desperate measures, she thought when her first fit of weeping had passed. Times like these called for chocolate.

  The bastard had none, only that elderly candy bar that she'd consumed the night before. Oh, sure, he had more than a case of beer, but the closest thing to chocolate was an old tin of baker's cocoa. She was desperate enough to try a spoonful, but she spat it out, shuddering. It was unsweetened.

  It took her ages to realize what she did have. Dried eggs and oil and flour and sugar. All the things she needed to make brownies. John didn't have anything useful like a cookbook among all his learned tomes on botany, but the blessed tin had a recipe on the back. No measuring cups, either, but she simply guessed. She almost gave up when she was ready to put the pan into the oven and discovered that the damned thing didn't have an automatic pilot, and she considered sitting on the porch and eating the batter plain. But she was made of sterner stuff than that, and if brownies weren't worth risking life and limb for, then what was?

  To her amazement the oven lit easily enough, with only one terrifying pop. She'd had to fashion a brownie pan out of several thick layers of tinfoil, and she slid it into the oven, keeping her fingers crossed. If they worked, she'd survive. Brownies made anything bearable.

  She almost started crying again when the brownies came out. They were perfect—soft and chewy, and she ate half the pan, burning her mouth as she did it, letting the blissful chocolate waves wash over her. As long as there was chocolate in the world things could never be too bad.

  She was half tempted to hide the rest of the chocolate in her room—he didn't deserve to share her body or her chocolate, but she decided that would be too petty. Instead she decided to snoop, wandering through the place, trying to figure out what kind of man John Bartholomew Hunter really was. It was growing dark when she struck gold. A small hardcover book, clearly written for older children, was tucked sideways in one of the bookshelves. A gangly teenager with familiar eyes stared out from the cover, and the title, Wild Child, told the rest. The book was copyrighted fourteen years ago, but that didn't matter. It was his past that interested her. She already knew the present.

  She took one of the oil lamps back to her room, curled up on the bed and started to read. She was so engrossed she didn't hear the front door open, didn't hear the footsteps in the kitchen.

  It was only when a shadow darkened her door that she looked up, startled, at the strange man standing there, watching her.

  And then she real
ized it was John.

  Chapter Thirteen

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  He'd shaved. His jaw was smooth, tanned, unadorned by the rough beard. His hair was too long, pushed back from his face, but it was smooth and silky, not the tangled mat that it had been. He wore the same clothes she did, the only clothes he seemed to own—khaki shorts and a white T-shirt, and for some reason the sight of him in a shirt, when she was so accustomed to him wearing so little, was even more disturbing.

  She looked into his face, schooling her own expression into one of utter disinterest. It was rough going. He had the face of an angel. No, the face of a fallen angel, high cheekbones, a strong jaw, a rich, generous mouth. And his eyes, his deep brown liquid eyes, no longer shuttered and opaque, watching her, expecting something from her. Something she wasn't willing to give.

  "Don't tell me the shock of my appearance isn't enough to make you speak?" he said, the irony clear in his raspy voice.

  She wanted to turn her back on him, turn to the book, but she couldn't. For one thing, she couldn't quite bring herself not to look at him. He was like chocolate for the eyes, and she was having a hard time resisting, at least the looking part.

  And she didn't particularly want him to see what she was reading. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how curious she was about his past. She already knew he was older than she'd thought, thirty-three years old. She knew things she hadn't wanted to know—about the little boy alone on an uninhabited island, trying to survive, and part of her wanted to jump up and put her arms around him, to put his head on her breast and stroke his face.

  But that wasn't what she really wanted, and she knew it.

  And it certainly wasn't what he wanted. He just wanted her gone, and his blessed privacy back again. Nothing personal, of course. He'd learned to live without people and he preferred it that way.

  "There's a boat coming for you tomorrow morning that'll take you to the mainland. The captain's an old friend of mine, and he'll see to it you get your passport replaced and get a ticket home. Unless you were wanting to go back and talk to Hunnicutt."

  She turned her back at that, carefully shielding the book from his gaze.

  "I thought not. The captain will be here mid-morning, so you won't have to put up with these primitive conditions for too much longer. Once I deal with Hunnicutt I'll see about getting your belongings shipped back to you in the States. I assume he'll have your address."

  That almost got her, but she kept her gaze on the wall. Deal with Hunnicutt? What did he think he would accomplish against someone with Hunnicutt's billions? That kind of money could buy any kind of protection—he'd be helpless.

  It wasn't her concern, she reminded herself sternly. Even if she were disposed to talk, he wouldn't listen. She'd gotten him out of that mess, and he'd returned the favor. They were even. If he chose to walk straight back into the lion's den again, then it was out of her hands.

  "You know," he said casually, "you'd make one hell of a wife. You've got the silent treatment down pat—it's almost as effective as the Chinese water torture. If I had to choose between some of the little electric experiments that first doctor was practicing on me and your class-A snit, I think I'd prefer the electricity."

  That made her turn. The word wife was a lot more shocking than anything else he could have said, and he seemed to realize it. He took a step back, a physical distancing, but she didn't move, watching him out of calm, steady eyes.

  "I'll make dinner," he said. "But just so you don't have any more nasty surprises, I thought I better mention something. My mother was French."

  She stared at him stonily, and then, just as he turned away, the other shoe dropped. She'd chattered away at him in French, using that language for her most embarrassing confessions. And he'd understood every word.

  She rolled on her stomach, barely managing to stifle her moan of sheer mortification. She'd thought things could only improve. She was wrong.

  He made spaghetti. She could smell the tomato sauce wafting through the house on the tropical breezes, and her stomach growled. No one could ruin spaghetti, and she was absolutely starving.

  One more night to get through, she reminded herself. One more night, curled up in this concave bed, and then she'd be out of here. She didn't really need to eat dinner—she'd gone longer without eating. So she was starving. There were worse things in the world. Like trying to ignore John while she ate.

  "Dinner's ready."

  Well, maybe starving wasn't as easy as she thought. Besides, there was still half a tray of brownies left and her chocolate cravings had barely been touched. Tucking the book under the covers, she climbed out of bed and headed into the kitchen. He was standing at the counter, watching her. She still couldn't get used to his face, his hair. If she'd had any sense she should have found him less attractive. She couldn't see any sign of the wild man who'd carried her off into the jungle, saved her life, protected her, and she missed him.

  But not as much as she was going to miss John Hunter when the boat carried her away the next morning.

  "I was going to set the table on the porch, but I figured you wouldn't want to sit with me, so I served you a plate and you can take it somewhere and eat it in private. Since I cooked you get to do the dishes, but I'm not holding my breath."

  She kept her gaze averted, picking up one of the plates of spaghetti and the fork he'd set out. She glanced around for the brownies, far more interested in them, but they'd disappeared from their place on the counter.

  It was enough to make her look at him. His smile was calmly infuriating. "Nice of you to make dessert," he observed. "I didn't know it was possible to make brownies out of the stuff I had kicking around here. Now all you have to do is ask me where they are and I'll tell you."

  Kidnapping was one thing. The bruises on her wrist were another. Lies, treachery and deceit were more nails in the coffin. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing worse than separating a woman from her chocolate. She gave him a glare that would have frozen hell.

  He shrugged, singularly unmoved by her silent fury. "You'll have to do better than that, Libby. Ask me where the brownies are, or do without."

  She was, after all, a lady. She didn't hurl the plate of spaghetti at his head, no matter how much she wanted to. She simply set it down on the counter, untouched, and went out to the front porch, closing the door behind her.

  He didn't make the mistake of coming after her, and she didn't waste her time going back in. She wasn't going to cry over lost brownies or abandoned spaghetti, and she certainly wasn't going to cry over leaving this remote, abandoned, empty, derelict, ill-kept, utterly serene piece of paradise.

  And most of all, she wasn't going to cry about walking away from her wild man. He'd disappeared into the mists, leaving a stranger behind. A stranger who frightened her even more than the savage.

  There was a thin sliver of moon hanging low over the ocean, and the stars were out in force. She put her feet up on the railing, watching as the tide receded and the evening air grew cool around her. She had to make it through one more night without falling apart. Once she got back to Chicago she could go into a Victorian decline and not come out of it for months. For now she had to tough it out.

  She'd left her watch behind at Ghost Island, so she had no idea what time it was. She'd left everything behind, including her common sense, and she hadn't even thought of it. But he had. She was in the middle of nowhere, no clothes, no identification, no money, no passport, thanks to him. No, that wasn't true. It had been her choice to free him. She just hadn't realized how much she'd be giving up. Her career was one thing. Her computer, her cell phone and her peace of mind made it a different situation altogether.

  The door to his bedroom was closed, and one lone oil lamp stood burning on the kitchen counter. The food had been put away, and she wondered whether there'd be cold spaghetti in the fridge. It might be worth a try.

  At least she wouldn't have to see him again. She wouldn't have to be tempted ag
ain by…

  His door opened, and he stood there, filling it, still in his shorts and T-shirt, holding the tinfoil pan of brownies in one hand. "Looking for these?" he asked in as dulcet a tone as his ruined voice could manage.

  It was the last straw. She grabbed for them, but he moved them out of reach, deftly, and she followed, in a blind fury, into his room, not even realizing where she was until he kicked the door shut behind her.

  "That's better," he said calmly. "And now you and I are going to have a talk, whether you like it or not."

  She spun around, ready to run, but he caught her, his hand closing around her bruised wrist, and she let out an involuntary yelp of pain, shocking him.

  "What's wrong?" he demanded, releasing her wrist but catching her elbow so she couldn't escape. He looked down at the marks on her wrist, and a second later he released her, horrified. "I didn't do that," he said flatly.

  She didn't say anything. She didn't have a clear shot to the door, but it was close. If she just held still long enough to allay his suspicions, she could make a run for it.

  She wasn't afraid of him. Not afraid that he would deliberately hurt her. Just afraid that she wouldn't be able to fight him anymore. That she'd start yelling at him, and if she did she'd start crying, and she didn't think she could stand it.

  "Those are old bruises," he said. "Did Alf do that to you? Mick?"

  She said nothing. She didn't need to. He looked at her and knew the truth, and he began to curse, foul, colorful obscenities directed at himself. "I didn't know, Libby," he said. "It must have been when they shot me so full of drugs. I didn't realize. No wonder you're frightened of me."

  She couldn't very well tell him otherwise. She simply nodded and started for the door, grateful for the easy escape.