by Anne Stuart
She was swimming laps, a fool thing to do when she was already half-exhausted from their hike through the rain forest. He stood in the shadows, watching her pale body glide through the transparent water, and he tried to tell himself what he felt was regret. When he knew damned well what he was feeling was desire. He wanted her again, he wanted her on a bed, all night long, where he could take his time and make her come until she was ready to pass out from it. He wanted an absolute orgy with her pale, naked body—that brief, barely satisfactory coupling behind the waterfall had only turned his sexual appetite into a voracious monster. He’d been planning on getting rid of her as soon as they got off this place—he knew that was what she wanted, especially after today. She needed cities and civilization like a drunkard needed whiskey.
And he knew he wasn’t going to be able to let her go. Not right away. Not with things unfinished between them.
He stretched out a ways from the lagoon, a spot where she could see him, know that he wasn’t watching her. He needed to lull her into at least a truce. She probably hated him for this afternoon. He didn’t blame her.
But he had every intention of changing her mind.
AT LEAST SHE’D STOPPED crying, Libby thought, pushing her body through the cool water with merciless determination. Nothing could stop her feelings of abject shame, the water couldn’t even begin to cool the blush of embarrassment that swamped her body. What in God’s name had come over her? She’d never done anything like that in her entire life. With a stranger. Someone who was closer to a wild animal than a man. In fact, she’d forced him, though he’d raised no objections. The memory of his hard, muscled flesh straining over her, the feel of him inside her, was still tormenting her, and all the water in the world wouldn’t wash away that feeling.
She hadn’t let him kiss her. She’d been afraid to, though she wasn’t sure why. She’d needed sex—for the first time in her entire life she’d needed a man, and she’d taken the one who was available.
Of course, she was ignoring the fact that she’d been having fantasies about him since she first saw him. He wasn’t a casual stranger she happened to jump. She’d been acutely, intensely aware of him and his body for days now. It wasn’t general panic that had made her jump him, and there was no other word for it. It was specific, directed at him. He’d brought her out of that place, he’d protected her. And some deep, primitive part of her wanted that protection guaranteed. She wanted to be claimed, so that he wouldn’t let her go easily.
All the silly little games women played, and she could see them in the harsh light of day, and feel like a fool. The sooner she got off this island, away from him, the better. Her fear of Alf and Mick was nothing compared to her fear of John. Her fear of what she was feeling.
She needed the city, the sidewalks, the cold chill of winter sinking into her bones. She wasn’t made for wild adventures with wild creatures. She was made for safety and comfort and security. Wasn’t she?
The flash of white caught her eye, and she spun in the water, suddenly nervous, to see her clothes stretched out on the bushes, drying. He was nowhere to be seen—a small blessing. She’d have to face him sooner or later, but she was in no hurry. She’d be able to regain her equilibrium eventually. That feverish coupling beneath the waterfall had been a one-time aberration. She’d get over it. As for John, he’d clearly known what he was doing, which ruled out the possibility that he’d lived his entire life isolated from other people. At some point or another he’d been around women, and knew the primary difference. Either that, or sex was hardwired into his psyche.
She didn’t want to think about it. She dove beneath the surface, skimming through the water like a dolphin, trying to outrun the memories. She didn’t want to think about sex, or him, or her own uncharacteristic behavior. All she wanted to think about was getting the hell out of there.
Which wasn’t going to happen as long as she lurked in the water, unable to face him. She knew exactly where he was—stretched out under a tree nearby. Far enough to give her a misleading sense of privacy, close enough if Mick and Alf came back this way. Though what he could do to stop them was beyond her comprehension. They’d have tranquilizer darts, and she knew from bitter experience just how effective they were. If they managed to sneak up on John they could knock him out before he even realized what was happening. And then she’d be alone, with no one to help.
Except that wasn’t going to happen. No one would sneak up on John without him being aware of it, she knew that with irrational certainty. And he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her. Apart, of course, from what she’d brought on herself.
She swam to the far edge of the lagoon, taking hold of a root to pull herself out of the water. He paid no attention, lying perfectly still, and she moved toward her clothes with undignified haste.
The clothes were almost dry, a blessing. She pulled them on quickly, then noticed her bra had disappeared. She hunted the bushes and the trail leading from the waterfall, but there was no sign of it. With a muttered curse she pulled the T-shirt over her naked flesh. In fact it was more comfortable, but she didn’t like the idea of wandering around the jungle without her bra.
She was being ridiculous. She’d already had sex with him—what would it matter if he could see her breasts through the T-shirt? She shoved her hands through her wet hair, sighing as the thick, humid heat settled down around her.
She turned, and John was standing there. She could feel the color rush up her throat, staining her face, and she would have averted her gaze, except that he looked the same as always. Remote, untouchable, barely even aware of her. Apparently those moments in the cave meant absolutely nothing to him.
At least, she could hope so. She tried for a brave smile, but even she could feel it was a little crooked. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I feel like an idiot, you know. No, of course, you don’t know. Which is just as well—this is embarrassing enough.”
She slid her feet into her sandals, then noticed he was coming toward her. She braced herself, wondering if he was fool enough to want sex with her again, and then was momentarily relieved to see he was holding a knife. Her knife, and he was coming right at her.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, her voice wavering in fear. “Granted, the sex wasn’t that good, but that doesn’t mean you have to…”
He caught her T-shirt in one hand and she let out a little yelp as the knife sliced down. A moment later one sleeve fell off, followed by the second, leaving her arms cool and bare.
“Oh,” she said blankly. “Thank you.”
He knelt down in front of her, reaching for her pant leg, and she held very still as he ripped the lower half away, so that she was left with shorts. It felt strange, looking down at him from that position, and she wanted to put her hands on his shoulder to steady herself when he pulled the ripped material away from her. She didn’t.
And then he was heading off into the rain forest again, obviously expecting her to follow him. She stood there, considering her options. If she went back, Alf would kill her, and Mick would do nothing but watch regretfully. If she struck out on her own she’d probably starve to death or be eaten by wild creatures.
Like it or not, her best chance was with John. He was almost out of sight, and she raced after him, her shame turning into irritation. “You might at least have waited for me,” she said. “It’s bad enough I jumped you in the cave—you don’t have to abandon me for it.”
Of course he didn’t answer, didn’t slow his measured pace, and she trotted along behind him, ignoring the fact that she was more comfortable in her abbreviated clothes, ignoring the fact that his strong, beautiful back was even more distracting than it had been before.
“It’s a good thing you don’t understand a word I’m saying,” she continued, warming to her theme. “That way we don’t have to have one of those embarrassing morning-after conversations. Or afternoon-after. Whatever it is I mean. Nothing worse than having to talk to someone you’ve se
en naked. Not that I saw you naked—it was too dark.” She was babbling, but it didn’t matter. The sound of her voice soothed her, reminded her who and what she was, and couldn’t have made any difference to him. At least the sound told him that she was there, trailing after him like a dutiful servant.
“It’s no wonder I try to avoid sex altogether,” she continued, scrambling over the huge roots that he cleared far more gracefully. “First you have all that stupid seduction crap, where neither of you are sure you want to do it but both of you think you ought to want to. And then there’s the act itself, which is usually messy and embarrassing and ultimately unsatisfying. The best that can be said about it is that it means someone wants you, but I’m not sure if that’s a price worth paying. And then there’s afterward, when you’re probably supposed to say you love each other but you’d really much rather be left alone.
“Not that I want to be left alone right now,” she added hastily. “And I suppose I’d have to admit that the sex wasn’t bad. In fact, it was probably the best I’ve ever had, and…”
The ever-graceful wild man had managed to stumble for the first time in days, and she barged into him. He caught her before she could fall, and she had the strangest notion that there was an expression in his eyes. Those dark, unfathomable eyes that had held no expression at all.
But when she tried to look for it, it vanished, and he was the same as always. Remote, uncomprehending as he set her away from him and started walking once more.
His hands had disturbed her, of course, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to admit that out loud, even to herself. All he’d had to do was touch her and her heart started racing. Though maybe that was just from the strain of keeping up with him.
But no, her heart was racing when they stopped, not when she was scrambling over the jungle landscape to keep up with him.
Maybe she should just stop talking and concentrate on her footing, she thought. It was amazing how much she’d spoken in the last few days. She tended to be a fairly closemouthed person—Richard had complained that she never told him what she was thinking. Which was a good thing, since Richard had tended to take over any original thoughts she’d had. She’d been chattering just about nonstop since they left the house, out of nervousness, out of the sheer, wicked pleasure of being able to say anything she wanted and not have to answer for it.
But she was finally winding down. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said to her companion. “I’m assuming you have some kind of boat stashed around here that will get us off this island without feeding us to the sharks? Which will be fine with me. Actually, after my flight here, I think I’d prefer the sharks to getting in another airplane. I wonder if you’ve even seen an airplane in your entire life?”
The afternoon shadows were lengthening, and a sudden, horrible thought came to her. What if they had to spend another night on the island? Would he expect to have sex with her again? Would he even want to? And what would she do if he did? Even worse, what would she do if he didn’t?
She was so busy worrying about that possible scenario that she failed to notice that the jungle was thinning out. To her astonishment they were coming out of the jungle onto a beach, the greeny-blue Pacific stretching out in front of them in endless, rolling waves.
She glanced up at John, but he seemed unsurprised, so she could only guess that he’d known exactly where he was going. He started down the beach, and she began to follow him, the dutiful little puppy dog, when this time he stopped, turned around and faced her.
She halted, suddenly nervous. He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her, gently, onto the sand, and she felt a sudden tightening in her stomach, wondering whether he’d want to…whether he thought she’d want to…
But then he moved away, down the beach again, not bothering to look back.
She sat cross-legged on the soft white sand, prepared to wait. She had no idea where he was going, or whether he even intended to come back. For all she knew he’d abandoned her, finally having had enough of her constant chatter.
She rested her chin on her knees, staring at the ever-changing ocean. That was one problem with cities, she had to admit. No ocean, and the broad shores of Lake Michigan didn’t even come close. If she hadn’t been kidnapped by a wild man, if she weren’t running for her life, if her messed-up life suddenly ceased to hassle her, she could be very happy just sitting there, watching the sea slide ever closer to her bare feet. Maybe she wasn’t as tied to the city as she’d always thought she was.
She sat, in blissful stillness, as the night began to close in around her. The thought of sleeping with John was beginning to be less frightening and more appealing. They could curl up underneath one of the towering trees like two babes in the woods. Except hadn’t the children been found dead in that poem?
And her feelings for John were, unfortunately, far from innocent.
She hadn’t even realized he’d come back. One moment she was alone on the beach, the next he was standing beside her. He reached down for her hand and pulled her up, and her heart started pounding with anticipation. Maybe he’d made them a little shelter in the jungle, with a soft, sweet-smelling bed of fronds and flowers, and he’d lead her there and kiss her and…
And she was becoming absolutely revolting, living out some jungle fantasy, she thought in self-disgust. He’d dropped her hand and started back down the beach, and this time she followed, wondering what great delight he’d prepared for her.
They turned onto a little spit of land, and her nervous anticipation vanished in sheer dread.
It was an airplane.
Chapter Eleven
There was no other term for it but blind panic. She tried to run, back down the beach, away from him, but he caught her around the waist, swooping her up and carting her toward the plane. The plane was even smaller than the tiny jet that had brought her to this godforsaken island, and nothing could make her get into it.
Nothing but John, strong and implacable, dragging her there. The back door was open, and he tossed her inside. She hit at him, screaming at him, but it did no good. He was too big, too strong, too invulnerable to anything she might say or do. He caught her wrists in one strong hand, and before she even realized what he was doing, he’d wrapped duct tape around them, efficiently disabling her. He swung her around, wrapped the tape around her ankles with quick efficiency, then ripped off a piece and covered her mouth with it, silencing her shrieks of fury.
He slid the door shut, and she fell back into the darkness, struggling helplessly against the restraints, rage and panic beating against her, so hard that she couldn’t catch her breath.
She heard the door open to the cockpit, but she couldn’t see anything, hear anything. No voices, just the sound of the motor revving, filling her with even more fear. Who the hell could be flying this tiny little deathtrap?
She wasn’t prepared for takeoff. The plane started rolling, tossing her back against something hard, and she hit her head. She tried to struggle to her knees again, but at that moment the plane suddenly took off, into the night sky, and she was thrown back again into a trussed-up heap of utter fear.
This time she stayed where she was, curled up in a fetal position in the darkness, the noise of the plane vibrating all around her. She didn’t want to think, didn’t want to guess, all she wanted to do was curl up in her misery and retreat into a merciful blankness. Everything in her life had tilted sideways, and she no longer knew what was right and what was wrong. All that she knew was that she’d been tricked.
She must have slept, though she would have considered it an impossibility. Even on big, safe jets she was usually too nervous to sleep, and trussed up in the back of this tiny little plane was hardly conducive to peace of mind. But staying awake with the torrent of thoughts and possibilities running through her brain was an unacceptable alternative, and she gave into the cold and the darkness and the oddly soothing sound of the engines.
She awoke with a start to realize the plane had bumped down
into a landing and the engines had been turned off. They were rolling in silence, and she could hear the crackle of brush under the wheels of the plane. And then it stopped, and all was silence and stillness.
She lay there in a curled-up ball, listening to him as he climbed out of the plane, circled it, and came to a stop outside the cargo door. He was in no hurry to open it, and she knew why. Maybe he’d chicken out entirely and just leave her like that for the rest of the night.
She’d underestimated him. As always. The door slid open, but the night was black beyond, only the faint light of the stars overhead.
And John, the wild man, the missing link, the savage with no language and no voice, said, “Are you ready to calm down?”
It wasn’t much of a voice, she had to grant him that. Her initial guess had been right—the rope marks on his neck must have done some damage to his vocal cords, and his voice was rough, harsh, like sandpaper on a block of wood. Laced with an Australian accent.
She would have tried to sit up, but she had real doubts she could manage it without falling over again, and she had already demeaned herself enough in this man’s presence. He climbed into the hold of the plane and reached for the duct tape on her mouth.
She hadn’t expected gentleness, but the abrupt rip added mortal insult to grievous injury. He pulled her around so that she was sitting and proceeded to cut through the tape on her ankles, then on her wrists. With the Swiss Army knife he’d taken from her.
