Trade

by Lane, Tabitha A

  “Why would he…”

  “I don’t know. I guess he thought it was funny or something. It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t cool. It was pathetic. I didn’t go to the dance, and a few days later school broke up. I came to your house, but your mother told me you wouldn’t see me.”

  “You came to my house?”

  “I came to apologize. To explain.”

  “I didn’t know that.” Her head tilted to the side. He couldn’t read the expression in her eyes, but the tension had left her body. “My parents were—are protective. They knew I was hurt. My older sister found out about the video through one of her friends’ younger sisters.” She laughed, a harsh, unjoyful sound. “My mother was appalled that I’d asked a boy out. She didn’t understand my motivation either, although to be honest, I was beyond explaining at that point.”

  She sank down onto the sand and stared out at the blue water.

  He sat next to her, and rested his hand on her back.

  She didn’t flinch, or move away.

  “I never fit in,” she said in a quiet voice. “I never expected to. But when you rejected me.” She turned and faced him. “It hurt.”

  “I’m sorry.” He’d wanted to say it for so many years, but now it didn’t feel like enough. He’d misjudged her—misinterpreted her motivation. Had rejected the one person who actually had been on his side, so many years ago. “I was stupid.”

  *****

  This is getting intense. Dangerous, crazy, intimate intense. Max rubbed her bottom lip with her thumb. Pulled in a breath and slowly released it. By apologizing, he’d shifted the dynamic between them. It was damned difficult to think of him just as a possible fuck-buddy when he was bringing their complicated history into the mix.

  She stole a glance.

  He stared into her eyes, all the usual teasing wiped from his expression. He meant it. And he was waiting for her answer.

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “It matters.” He clasped her hand. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  He’d rejected her then, and he’d rejected her now; they had nine days of hell to get through if this kept up. She plastered a smile onto her face. “You’re ego’s showing again. I’m not the same girl I was back then.” She needed to end this. Needed to put some distance between them. “Have you done some preparation for this trip?”

  Her voice sounded crisp and businesslike. That’s more like it.

  “Like?” His eyes narrowed.

  “Like are you able to fish? Find your own food? That sort of thing? Because if you’re going for the whole experience…”

  “Yes.” His teeth gritted.

  “Well, in that case, I think I’ll leave you to it and go set up my camp.” She didn’t want to be around him one moment longer. Didn’t want to throw herself at him and risk rejection again. “I think I’ll go that way.” She waved up the beach.

  “Off you go then.” He turned away and slashed at a nearby patch of bamboo.

  “See you later, maybe.”

  A brief nod her direction. “You want to meet for dinner?”

  Sholto Kincaid and moonlight? Count me out. “I’ll come and check on you in the morning.” She’d brought her battery-operated boyfriend and extra batteries—not sleeping with him wouldn’t bother her at all.

  *****

  He dreamed of croissants. Hot croissants slathered in butter and dark, bitter marmalade. Of hot, strong coffee. Out of a mug. But when Sholto crawled from his coconut-leaved shelter to face a morning in paradise, breakfast was nothing like his dreams.

  He drank water from the plastic bottle that had seen better days and chewed on coconut flesh.

  Glints of sunlight reflected from the flat surface of the sea. The sky was clear and cloudless. He’d half expected Max to relent and join him the previous evening, but there’d been no sign of her, so he’d taken advantage of the last hours of light and made a lobster pot instead—he’d catch lobster or crab as Weatherly had done.

  He pressed a hand to his growling stomach. There was a reef around the island, if he could find a sheltered cove, he could be eating crab for dinner. He put on a T-shirt, pulled on light cotton pants, and strolled to the shoreline.

  It was too early for the sand to have heated up, so the walk around the coastline was pleasant. “Great.” He spotted a few tiny hermit crabs and scooped them into his T-shirt to bait his hook with later. “Sorry, guys, needs must.” If Larry could see him now, talking to hermit crabs, he’d laugh his ass off. In Solo, Weatherly had written about talking to himself constantly, so he buried the thought it was bizarre, and told himself it was method acting.

  “I should have had a haircut before I left.” With no comb or brush, his overlong hair had curled like a movie pirate’s. A day out in the sun had already darkened his Hollywood tan. He was in pretty good shape already, but by the time the boat came to collect then in eight days, he’d be a lean, mean, acting machine.

  Once he won the role, the movie would film the island scenes first, then he’d gain thirty pounds to play the scenes before and the scenes after. It was the role of a lifetime. The one that would consolidate him in the public eye as a serious actor—maybe even get him an Oscar. And coming hot on the heels of his previous role…

  He sniffed the air. Scanned ahead. Around the bend, up the sand toward the tree line, a thin spiral of smoke curled into the sky. A fire.

  His heart pounded and he picked up the pace.

  A small, green tent had been pitched at the top of the beach. The campfire smoldered a few feet away, with a metal, enameled coffeepot sitting in the coals. His mouth watered at the familiar scent, and every caffeine-deprived atom in his body bounced around in anticipation.

  The tent flap flipped up.

  Max strolled out clad in a hot-pink bikini. She didn’t see him. Was humming some half-familiar tune, and looked well rested.

  For a moment, he just stood there and stared. Even though Max could only be around 5’3”, every inch of her was in perfect proportion. She wasn’t wearing makeup, but her hair was smooth and shiny. She must be packing a mobile salon in that tent.

  She reached a hand into her bikini top, and rearranged the position of her nipple. As a woman might if she considered herself completely alone.

  And I’m goddamned hard again. Sholto cleared his throat.

  Max’s face whipped his direction. Her eyes were wide and panicked.

  Then she saw him and her entire body language changed. Her shoulders relaxed, and a wide smile appeared. “Good morning.” She glanced at the pot hanging from his hand. “What’s that?”

  “Lobster pot.” He walked over and handed it to her.

  Her gaze flickered up and down him, lingering on his exposed chest. “Good thinking.”

  She chewed on her bottom lip at the bulge in his pants, then picked up an enamel cup and walked to the fire and poured a cup of coffee. “Did you sleep okay?”

  His gaze was drawn to the cup, and his throat moved, as though imagining swallowing a mouthful of the fragrant brew. “You brought coffee?”

  “I packed a bag. I reckon it comes under the category of essentials.”

  “Any true castaway would take advantage of anything he found on the island.” She looked gorgeous in the bikini, so gorgeous he couldn’t resist flirting. “I’ll trade you dinner for a cup of coffee now.”

  She tilted her head to the side, and flirted right back. “Hmm, a sure deal now in exchange for a promise of future deliciousness?”

  “You know you want to.”

  “It doesn’t exactly fit the terms of the agreement though, does it?” She sipped the fragrant brew.

  “Like I said, if Weatherly were here, he’d do the same.”

  She nodded. Drained the cup, and waved in the direction of the coffeepot. “Okay, you’re on. But you’re cooking.”

  “I’ll set the pot out in the cove first.” He faced the ocean while he stripped off his pants thankful he hadn’t bothered to remove the soft jersey bo
xers he’d worn last night before dressing. Getting naked right now wouldn’t be the best idea.

  He grinned at the sound of a swift intake of breath, but didn’t turn; if they were supposed to be keeping this neutral she didn’t need to see how the sight of her had affected his body.

  A quick gesture at the T-shirt he’d dropped on the sand. “I have hermit crabs in there. Keep an eye on them and make sure they don’t escape?” Then he jogged to the water and into the gentle waves.

  *****

  The muscles that played along his back as he moved—the tight curves of his ass showcased in the clinging cotton as he strode into the water made it easy to remember him nude.

  He has one hell of a sexy walk. Which was a pretty stupid thought considering he was only putting one foot in front of the other, the way every single human being on the planet had to. God knows why she found him so attractive—maybe it was because she hadn’t touched a man in six months.

  Max found a fresh coconut under a nearby tree, and slashed it open. The liquid inside was fresh and cool, and she slaked her thirst. She wished she had sunglasses, so she could watch him come out of the water without it being obvious she was checking him out, but as she didn’t, she would have to satisfy herself with surreptitious glances when he re-emerged.

  The sooner he took his sexy walk back to his hideaway the better.

  Melati was paradise—the perfect place to sunbathe and swim naked, but she’d dressed in the bikini this morning just in case he showed up. Because even the thought of being naked around Sholto again made her so wet she couldn’t stand it.

  What if she’d abandoned modesty and gone with her gut?

  Her nipples hardened at the thought of swimming naked knowing he was in the undergrowth watching. Being spied on had always been one of her secret fantasies. She’d walk naked into the water. Feel its cool caress on her calves, her knees, her thighs, her sex. She’d stand in waist-high water and bare her breasts to hidden eyes.

  He’d be turned on watching her. Maybe he’d strip off his clothes and stroke his hard cock… Damn. She slipped a hand into the front of her bikini bottoms and rubbed her middle finger over her tingling clit. Her panties were wet. Sholto had dived under the water, but now his head popped up from the waves, and turned her direction. She pulled out her hand and pressed her thighs together.

  He walked up the sand, poured a cup of coffee, and drank. Water streamed from his body, outlining his cock in the wet cotton. “I’ll be back later to check the trap.” He snatched up his T-shirt.

  “Are you planning on eating the hermit crabs too?” Her voice sounded husky, as if she’d been screaming his name for hours.

  He shook his head. “Fishing bait.”

  “Ah. Good idea.” She watched him cross the dry sand until he passed the jutting curve of the little headland and was out of sight. Out of sight, but not out of mind. Then she slipped inside the privacy of her tent, and lay on the groundsheet.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about him. Her mind had got hung up on one memory, that of him taking off his pants, and stalking to the sea. What if she’d stopped him? In her imagination, she unfastened her bikini top and let it fall to the sand. Called his name.

  He turned.

  Her palms brushed over her breasts, teasing the nipples into tight buds.

  He’d walk back to her. His jawline was dark with stubble that would prickle against the soft skin of her tits as he sucked her nipple into his mouth.

  Max groaned. He’d rejected her—it was totally wrong to use him as fantasy fuck inspiration. Although probably thousands of woman did, or would once they’d seen After Ecstasy. She remembered him onscreen.

  He’d said things, simulated things that would make any red-blooded woman hot. But Damon Fitz was no more real than Rhett Butler, Mr. Darcy, or Christian Grey. She’d been interested, titillated by Sholto’s performance on screen, but it was the thought of the real man that filled her mind as she stroked between her legs again.

  The muscles flexing in his bicep as he slashed coconut fronds from the tree. The knowing look in his eye as he’d kissed her on the boat. The sexy burr of his Scottish accent.

  The real man was more visceral, less perfect. Not shared with the rest of the world—her own private fantasy.

  I shouldn’t think of him. But her fingers played with her clit, and his image filled her mind despite her protestations. They could be good together. She imagined their bodies in close contact. His hard cock thrusting into her.

  Shit. With a curse, Max screwed her eyes tight and crossed her arms over her face. Imagination was never as good as the real thing. She sighed. Sexual frustration had never felt so goddamned bleak. She sat up, and pulled on her clothes and boots. There was no point lying around thinking about a man who didn’t want her—she’d promised Cam she’d take advantage of the time away to relax, to take control of the anxiety that had held her in its grip since the disastrous incident with Joel. Plagued with insomnia and nervous of strangers, she’d wasted months blocking the emotions she didn’t want to face with work.

  Now, she had nothing to do but to survive and heal. Obsessing over Sholto wasn’t the answer. She rubbed sunscreen over her face. Grabbed an empty two-liter bottle, and crawled out of the tent.

  The trek through the undergrowth was hard going. On the way, the noise of her making her way through the forest alarmed brightly colored birds that flew into the sky in a cacophony of birdsong. She kept a close eye on the ground, watching out for snakes and scorpions, but didn’t see any. At a breadfruit tree, she cut a heavy fruit to take back to camp.

  By the time she reached the stream, her shirt was sticking to her back. She placed the fruit on the silky grass, took off her boots and clothes, and stepped into the water. It was cold, deliciously cold. Clear and sparkling. She scooped up a handful of water and tasted it, then filled the bottle to the brim. Then she put it on the grass and walked back into the water again, submerging her heated body in the cool water’s depths.

  Chapter Eight

  From the position of the sun, it must be mid-afternoon. Sholto’d caught and cooked a fish, and now the heavy meal lay in his stomach like a rock. He crawled inside his shelter, stretched out on the soft covering of leaves, and closed his eyes. Everyone in hot countries went for siestas, didn’t they?

  He hadn’t banked on dreaming about her.

  Especially not that dream. Instead of featuring her on the beach, or in the sea or jungle, his dream about Max took place in a doctor’s office. He was the patient, and she wore a short white coat, suspenders, and high heels with a stethoscope swung around her neck. Her blonde hair was pinned on top of her head, and she’d gone heavy on the eyeliner—looking rather like a young Sophia Loren.

  “I’ll need to examine you, Mr. Kincaid.” She waved across the room to a screen. “Take off your clothes and lie on the examination couch.”

  He did as she asked. “Shouldn’t I have a gown or something?”

  “There’s no need for that—you don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.” Her gaze flicked down than up to his eyes again. She took her stethoscope and blew on it. “This might be a little cold.” She held him in place with a hand on his chest then lent over him, providing a very clear view straight down the dip in her coat. Then she placed the stethoscope ends into her ears, and the flat round disc over his heart. After a couple of minutes she stood back up and fastened the stethoscope around her neck again. “Your worst fears are correct, I’m afraid. You don’t appear to have a heart.”

  “I have one hell of a body though.” Her gaze followed his hand as he stroked his chest and stomach to his erect cock. “Everybody says so.”

  “I’d have to agree with them.” Her expression didn’t change; she still looked at him as though he were a specimen in a jar. “But I’m afraid it isn’t enough.” She turned away. “Get dressed, Mr. Kincaid and we can discuss your options.”

  At that, he jerked awake to find himself hard and wanting. That much wasn’t
a surprise, just like every other man in the world he usually woke with a hard-on, but the lingering emotions churned up by the dream, took him by surprise. Disappointment. An aching in his chest that he’d been judged and found wanting.

  She wasn’t just affecting his body, she was messing with his head. Her opinion of him mattered. And the reason for not bedding her he’d voiced the day before now seemed ridiculous and futile. Sex with Max wouldn’t make his experience on the island any less valid, but not touching her, tasting her, being in her, might very well kill him.

  He climbed out of the shelter, got naked, and ran into the sea.

  He speared a fish for dinner. Stuffed it with some wild thyme he found growing near the stream, and had just settled it on hot coals for baking when he heard the call.

  “You decent?”

  He was pretty sure he was grinning like a fool as he called back, “Yep, come on over.”

  She came into view, like a vision he’d dreamed up. Her long blonde hair hung in perfect waves down her back, and over her bare shoulders. She wore a pale yellow sundress, carried her shoes, and had her small knapsack on her back.

  Before he registered he was even moving, he was at her side. “So, what did you do today?”

  “I went for a walk.” She looked at his mouth, and a wave of heat spread through his insides. “No crab?”

  “I caught some fish instead.” She didn’t need to know he hadn’t even checked the pot when he visited her camp earlier and found her gone. “So, you were exploring.”

  “Yes.” She sniffed, and glanced at the fire. “That smells good.”

  She swung the bag from her back, and grabbed it in both hands. Unzipped it and pulled out a bottle of whisky. “In anticipation of dinner caught by you tomorrow too, I brought something else to trade.”

  He took the bottle of Glenfiddich. “Excellent choice.”