by Anne Stuart
It was the final straw. She yanked her arms apart so that the cut duct tape fell on her lap, and she slapped him full across the face, as hard as she could.
It was a lot harder than she’d realized. Her hand was numb from the force, and his head whipped back in shock. He was still holding the knife, and she belatedly realized that might not have been the smartest thing she’d ever done, given that she knew absolutely nothing about him except that he was a cheat and a liar. But she didn’t care.
“All right,” he said finally. “I guess I owe you that one. But don’t try it again. I’ve had my fill of being hit in the last few months and I’m not about to put up with any more of it.”
She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. She was, quite simply, speechless, with fury and embarrassment. He’d understood everything she’d been saying. About Richard, about her family, about her sex life…oh, God, about him. She’d blithely told him she lusted after him. Blithely told him the sex had been the best she ever had.
She clamped her mouth shut, glaring at him, keeping her hands folded in her lap so she wouldn’t hit him again. She was still reeling in shock from so many things, not the least was the fact that she’d actually hit another human being when she prided herself on her self-control. She’d slapped him so hard her hand still hurt, and she actually wanted to hit him again.
The only way she was going to get through this was to retreat inside herself until she was calm enough to handle it. And him. She glared at him.
He was totally unmoved by her rage, but that was nothing new. He’d been totally unmoved by everything she’d said or done, with the minor exception of sex. And she certainly wasn’t going to be thinking about that again—this was horrendous enough without that ludicrous distraction. She waited with deceptive patience as he climbed back out of the plane, and he held out a hand to help her down.
She ignored it, sliding forward on her butt and swinging her legs over the side of the cargo hold. They were in the middle of an open field, with the stars all around, and she knew a moment’s desperate hope that he’d brought her back to civilization.
No such luck. The night was dark, lit only by the stars. No blessed light pollution, nothing but Mother Nature to guide their way.
The ground was soft and spongy beneath her feet, and her knees were cramped from the uncomfortable ride in the back of the airplane, but she didn’t even flinch. The last thing she needed to do was collapse at his feet, give him a reason to touch her. Not that he seemed the slightest bit interested in touching her.
“Follow me,” he said, heading toward the edge of the clearing and a wide path. She stayed where she was, considering her alternatives. He stopped, looking back at her.
“This is another island, and there’s no one around who can help you. I’d suggest you sleep in the plane, but I’m thinking you’ll be wanting a bed after the last two days. My place is just down the road. And don’t give me that look—there’s a guest room. You can sleep in pristine privacy.”
He was a sarcastic son of a bitch, she thought grimly. She liked him better when he couldn’t talk. He was right, though—she didn’t have much choice. At that point she was willing to trade her pride for a bed, as long as it was a single one.
Once more she was following his strong, beautiful back through a jungle. This time, however, the track was wide, built for a car. This time she knew he wasn’t a beautiful, untamed creature. He was a lying pig who’d taken advantage of her gullibility.
She would have given ten years off her life if they hadn’t had sex. It was that simple—she could have handled the embarrassment, the betrayal, anything, if she just hadn’t…if he just hadn’t…
She had to stop thinking about it. She couldn’t change the past, and right now she was stuck in a completely humiliating present. It wouldn’t last that long. He had to be as eager to get rid of her as she was to leave—he’d get her off the island by tomorrow and she’d never have to see him or think of him again.
Except when she dealt with the remnants of her career. She’d destroyed it for his sake, and she tried to summon up outrage. She couldn’t. He’d been trapped, drugged, tortured by Hunnicutt’s minions, and if they’d found out he wasn’t their golden jungle child they probably would have killed him. No, she couldn’t regret what she’d done, no matter how high the price.
She just wished she’d kept her big mouth shut. Among other things.
It was less than five minutes to their destination, but Libby would have been happy if it had taken five hours. She was totally unprepared for the small villa-type house sitting on a wide stretch of beach. It looked like a typical tropical bungalow—porches running the length of the house, lots of windows to let in the breeze.
He started up the front steps, and she held back, contemplating returning to the empty plane. He pushed open the front door, then turned back to her. “Coming?”
She wasn’t going to dignify that with an answer. She followed him up the wide front steps, slowly, reluctantly, half expecting some angry owner to appear with a shotgun. He’d called it his place, but she didn’t believe him. She didn’t believe a word he said.
No angry owner appeared, of course. The front porch opened onto one big room, and she stood there while John, or whoever he was, moved through the house, lighting candles and kerosene lamps so that the place was slowly illuminated. He disappeared into one of the back rooms, and she moved toward a wicker chair, sitting down on it with a weary sigh.
It was too dark to make out any of the details of the room. There were walls of books, which presumably her wild man had read. There were shabby, comfortable chairs, but no sign of a telephone. There was a desk, covered with neatly piled papers, as if someone who wasn’t naturally tidy had tried to put it in order, and she was half tempted to go over and see if she could find any answers in those stacks of papers. She stayed put.
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
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.
