Her mind wandered to the business card Shawna had left her.
“A reality show...bah,” she said. “Ridiculous.”
Ridiculous, because she’d be right where her mother would love for her to be, and no doubt Cybil would use Phoebe’s stardom for her own advancement. And she’d be so proud of her daughter too.
Ridiculous, even though she could perhaps triple her class sizes, and pay off the worst of her mortgage payments with whatever they offered her to be on the show. A lifted stress, she wouldn’t have to worry about the added expenses of raising a preteen who outgrew shoes and clothes in the blink of an eye.
She groaned, got to her feet, and retrieved the business card. Surely being on TV wouldn’t be that bad, right? Phoebe could keep Sarah away from the cameras, plus a silly reality show wouldn’t draw much attention. With all the ones spamming television now, her dinky show wouldn’t be much. Chances were, she’d fade away after the series wrap-up.
She forced a smile to her lips, despite the nervous butterflies leaving her a bit queasy. Phoebe grabbed her cellphone. It wouldn’t kill her to at least talk to the woman.
Chapter 3
Jonathon had to admit to second and then third thoughts as he rode the motorboat out toward the small island where he’d be abandoned for twenty-five days. He’d spent the past two months working out and learning everything he could about surviving on next to nothing. He’d read up on the Maldives. The climate was stable with warm days and nights. Few storms. No dangerous predators or poisonous snakes on the land. Even the sharks weren’t much of a threat as long as he didn’t harass them.
He’d never done anything even remotely similar. Hell, he didn’t even like camping that much. Being generally gregarious and from a big family meant Jonathon had rarely spent more than a few hours by himself. The idea of nearly a month of solitude frightened him the most. The worst part was when he’d told his dad, and his dad had actually laughed and said he loved the idea. Doing something his father encouraged was a new feeling for him, and he couldn’t say he hated it. And that was the problem.
He gripped the deck rail as the boat bucked against choppy waves. The tiny island he’d be abandoned on took on a more distinct shape as they approached. Green and inviting palm trees set a vivid backdrop against the deep blue sky and equally stunning blue-green waters. White sand twinkled beneath the blazing sunlight, bright even with sunglasses, and he squinted against the glare. It was a breathtaking sight.
The same sun heated the back of his neck and left a sheen of sweat on his skin. Sunburn was a real threat. Despite how lush the island appeared, and how beautiful the waves looked beneath the sunlight, the sun would prove to be his worst enemy. He knew from his survivalist crash course water would be his first priority, shelter second, and food third. He licked his lips of the ocean’s salt spray, his throat already dry. He grabbed a bottle of water from a cooler on the boat, the last easy drink he’d have for a while, and downed it all. He grabbed another, drinking half of it, doing his best to get as hydrated as possible.
Another two minutes and the boat pulled close to the island, and the driver shifted into idle. A quarter mile lay between Jonathon and the island. A quarter mile of postcard perfect water.
“Swim from here,” the driver said.
Jonathon nodded. This would be his first test of endurance. He stared into the crystal clear waters, searching for anything that might swim below and cut this adventure short. Reef sharks called the waters around the island home. He knew from research only the Grey Reef Sharks, sea snakes, and stingrays might pose a threat. Beneath, a few colorful fish swam, but he didn’t spot anything that might take a bite out of him.
He shoved his shorts down, yanked his shirt over his head, and pitched his sunglasses aside. Standing in his boxer briefs, he gave the cameraman on board a big smile and wave before diving into the water. He kicked out, and cut through the warm waves in strong strokes. The temperature of a pleasant bath, the Indian Ocean around the islands was only slightly cooler than the air. Another cameraman followed his swim in a smaller raft, taking footage, so he did his best to make his strokes appear effortless. By the time he hit shore, his arms ached, though he wasn’t too winded as he trudged up the sand to the shadow of a palm tree.
He took a minute, running through the show rules in his mind. Every five days he’d be expected to hike to the designated point where he’d find some useful item he’d asked for. A machete would be waiting for him when he arrived, then a flint, cooking pot, hunting knife, rope, and the fifth point would be his pickup place to head home. For safety he’d carry a waterproof cellphone he could use to call the capitol city Malé if an emergency occurred, and the show could also track him via GPS thanks to the camera he was required to wear.
The raft with the cameraman zipped back and forth, getting more footage of Jonathon as he walked to a neon green cloth bag hanging from a tree. Inside, he found the headband with the tiny camera attached. He hit the power button then fitted it around his brow. The camera sat above his ear.
Afterward, he waved to the cameraman who then headed back to the waiting boat that had brought them.
Jonathon pulled a map out of the bag, along with his machete, leaving the emergency phone inside. He slung the bag strap over his shoulder, then studied the roughly drawn, almost cartoonish map, searching for the place he was expected to camp for the next few days. He traced the red line leading along the shore with his fingertip, stopping at a point on the beach.
His gaze moved out over the ocean once more when he heard his delivery boat fire up its motor, and he watched it depart, with it, the last humans he’d see for quite some time. A nervous feeling settled in his gut, but he quickly dismissed it.
“I needed a tropical vacation,” he said aloud for the benefit of the camera he wore. The show would have voice-over, but the producers had encouraged him to share what he was thinking as much as possible. “I hope you haven’t made this easy for me, though.”
With the sun nearing noon, he started walking, trying to keep to the shade, because the sand burned the soles of his feet. The oppressive humidity quickly left him in a film of sweat, and thirst tickled his dry throat within thirty minutes. Jonathon glanced through the trees and undergrowth, hoping clean water could be found somewhere in the dense foliage.
“I’ll find a water source first,” he said aloud. “Then I’ll work on getting a fire going to keep the insects off of me tonight.” Biting flies and mosquitoes would be a menace, but what he really worried about were sand fleas. They carried serious diseases and were harder to hide from.
Birds chattered and sang from the interior of the island while overhead gulls squawked and swooped. The island was roughly four miles in diameter and only three and a half feet above sea level at its highest point. Wet sand squished between his toes. As he rounded a bend in the shoreline, he saw gulls swarming over a big black lump, and when he drew closer he discovered the decayed remains of a sea turtle.
He eyed the thing for a minute, the rank odor tying his stomach in knots. But the carapace was too good to pass up. He dug the end of his machete into the turtle shell, knocking out the bits and bones the gulls hadn’t cleaned out, until it was as clean as he could get it.
“I’m thinking this will come in handy for some reason or another,” he said for the benefit of his camera. “It’s pretty nasty, but you never know what you’ll need in a pinch, eh?”
A quick wash in the saltwater, and he felt satisfied with his scavenged item, despite its lingering foul smell. Flies buzzed and darted for the shell while gulls circled overhead, upset lunch had been stolen. Jonathon ignored their sharp, agitated calls...they’d have to find someplace else to dine.
He whistled as the sun rose higher in the sky. The island breeze ruffled his hair and cooled the reddening skin on his chest and shoulders. After a quick look down, he noticed his upper thighs looked sunburnt too.
“I should’ve requested sunscreen,” he mumbled. The coating he�
�d applied that morning had long worn off, and the sun had managed to find him, even in the shade.
He turned a bend along the beach then froze. Ahead, a dark figure clashed with the shining white sand. He blinked and squinted at the mirage. It had to be a mirage, because the island had no human inhabitants. Surely the producers would’ve double-checked for interlopers that could ruin the start of the show.
The figure had stopped as well, and the two of them stood a long while, staring at one another. Finally, he lifted his arm and waved, and the figure waved back.
“What the…” Jonathon took long strides, closing the gap. Soon it became apparent the figure was a woman. And not just any woman, but one dressed only in a dark brown cotton bra, matching panties and a headband identical to his. A neon pink drop bag was slung over her shoulder.
He stopped when they were a yard apart, and couldn’t help but ogle his island companion. Her hips and breasts were full, her stomach flat, her waist nipped. Strong muscular legs led down to a pair of cute little feet. She had long, dark chestnut hair caught in a braid skimming over the top of her breast. She stared up into his face.
“Uh, hi,” he said after he found his voice.
She didn’t look happy. The scowling woman folded her arms over her breasts as if to shield them, only shoving her cleavage to even more ample proportions.
“I thought I’d be by myself,” she snapped. As if their meeting was his fault.
“A twist in the game, eh?” he replied. He was definitely much happier with this turn of events than she was. “I thought the same thing.”
Her big brown eyes coursed down him in a cool perusal, and back up again to his face.
“I know who you are,” she said. “You’re Jonathon Breck. Why the hell would they put someone like you out here? You won’t last two nights.”
That rankled him, and he drew up taller. “I’ll have you know I put in a lot of training the past few months. I got a Primitive Survival Rating of 6.2.”
On a scale from one to ten with ten being best, he was pretty damned proud of that score.
“I can only assume they put me out here to babysit,” she continued as if he’d never spoken. “I don’t want to be a damn babysitter.”
“I don’t need a babysitter. Like I said, I’m capable of handling myself. And what’s your name, by the way?”
“Phoebe,” she said.
He stared at her, the niggling of recognition teasing the back of his mind, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Her name, those eyes…
She turned away, studying her copy of the map, and he had a lovely view of her nice round rear. And what a lovely, lovely backside indeed. He’d love to see her bent over—
“Hey, Casanova, let’s get a move on,” Phoebe said over her shoulder. Her narrowed eyes told him she’d peeked into his thoughts. “They want us camping here tonight. We need to get a shelter built, and a fire going. Then we’ll find a water source, coconuts will work for now.”
Jonathon cleared his throat. Bossy women normally didn’t faze him, but irritation began a slow simmer in his blood. “Sure, boss, lead the way,” he said. Arguing wouldn’t get things accomplished. He’d have to show her he was competent.
She focused on the stinking turtle shell dangling from the tips of his fingers, and frowned in disgust.
He felt his face heat in embarrassment. “Might come in handy,” he said lamely.
“For what?” she asked, taking a step back as a breeze stirred the smell up. “Attracting flies? Getting violently ill?”
He lifted a shoulder, and swatted at a few of the offending insects buzzing around his face. “We’ll figure something out,” he said, determined to keep it. They might cook in it or something. He looked it over, seeing bits of rotted flesh still clinging inside. Or not.
They found a good spot to build their crude shelter, and while Phoebe worked on the frame, Jonathon chopped down big green palm fronds to cover it. It took a couple of hours, more time than he’d anticipated, but once they’d weaved the fronds together the place didn’t look half bad. Inside they lay down more fronds to keep them off the sand. Already, his feet stung from sand flea bites, and he gritted his teeth, resisting the need to scratch, which would only make it worse.
“I’ll go find water,” Phoebe said. “Do you know how to build a fire?”
Jonathon had learned about bow drills, but hadn’t been very successful with them. “Do you have a flint?” he asked.
“No, you?”
He lifted the machete. “No, this is my first item request. A flint will be next drop.”
She looked at her own machete and shook her head. “I knew this show sounded too simple. Well, do you know how to make a bow drill?”
“Yes.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “Okay, do you know how to make one and use it successfully?”
Simmering annoyance flared a bit hotter. Judging by the last few minutes, this woman seemed to hold a personal grudge against him. He stared hard into her somehow familiar eyes, hoping some memory would spark.
Nothing.
“Probably not,” he finally admitted.
Phoebe blew out an exasperated breath. “Fine, gather us some coconuts, and I’ll build the fire. We’ll have to have the smoke to keep the bugs off of us tonight.”
He left her to her fire starting skills and found a couple of fresh coconuts lying on the beach. He hacked the top off one and took a deep swallow of the liquid inside. Though tepid, it quenched his thirst, and he opened another and took it to Phoebe. She’d collected some tinder into a pile for the campfire, and accepted his offering with a brief thanks. He watched the coconut water trickle down her neck as she tipped it up to her mouth. The escaped rivulets led a tantalizing trail down, disappearing between her breasts. He licked his lips, imagining the salty sweet taste if he were to lean in and lap it up. His groin tightened, and he turned away quickly, before she could spot his growing erection.
“I’ll scout around for fresh water,” he told her as he grabbed a couple more coconuts and headed toward the thicket beyond the beach.
He marched his way deep into the undergrowth. The island looked wet, felt wet, but it took nearly an hour before he found a small, fresh pool left from some past rainstorm. He dropped to his knees, scooped out dead bits of palm leaves, then took a tiny sip, hoping it wasn’t contaminated. The only safe drink was from water which had been boiled first, but without a cooking pot, they didn’t have much choice for the time being. Coconuts worked in a pinch, but they still needed fresh water to keep hydrated.
He filled up the two coconuts he’d opened and emptied, and carried them back to camp. Luckily, hacking his way through the dense growth had left an easy trail to follow. The last thing he needed to do was get lost. Not that much danger lay in getting hopelessly lost on the tiny island—it wouldn’t take long to get to the shoreline and find his way back—but giving Phoebe added fuel to her curious dislike of him didn’t sit well.
Who is she? Some secret hid between them and she didn’t seem ready to reveal it. Maybe she was an actress the producers had hired to make Paradise more interesting? Which might explain her familiarity if he’d seen her on television.
Seemed reasonable, yet he couldn’t settle on that explanation.
Regardless what the producers had planned, Jonathon hoped he could work his way into Phoebe’s good graces. And later, out of her bra and panties.
Chapter 4
Of all the dirty tricks… Phoebe swallowed her anger as she worked the bow drill. The humidity made it hard to get a coal started, and her shoulder throbbed as she sawed back and forth. Sweat dripped off the end of her nose and splattered on the already moist tinder she had to work with.
“Damn fool probably got himself lost,” she muttered.
How would she carry her own weight and Jonathon’s for the coming weeks? Twenty-five days to find food, water, keep a shelter over their heads. Not much else besides a few reptiles and birds lived on the land, so food wo
uld be hit-and-miss if they couldn’t find resources in the ocean. Coconuts would only carry them so far before malnutrition would set in.
She glanced up at the gulls circling and squawking, watching as several lit down to investigate the rotten turtle shell Jonathon had brought along. She swiped her forearm over her brow.
Jonathon Breck. Of all people, they had to send me Jonathon Breck.
Suddenly she was back in the borrowed room of the fraternity house. Music blaring downstairs, the bed groaning and squeaking beneath them. Phoebe swallowed, shaking her head of the memory, wondering if the producers had somehow discovered Sarah’s paternity. It seemed much too big of a coincidence they’d stuck Jonathon on the island as her partner.
The latest gossip report stated he’d recently eloped with some supermodel. So far he’d been married off three times that year. Not that she paid attention to his love life of course.
Jonathon had changed over the past eleven years. Gone was the softness of youth. His jawline was stronger, his chest had a nice sprinkling of hair over it, his once lithe build now carried more muscle bulk—things that left him even more masculine and appealing.
She recalled in exquisite detail every moment they’d spent together that fateful night in college. A dancing mash-up burned into her memory, it played like a movie in her mind’s eye. Cruel and taunting images squeezing her emotions like a vise. Because when she’d met his gaze earlier, she hadn’t seen a flicker of recognition in his silvery eyes.
Why should he remember her? He was drunk and she was nobody in particular, that had been the unspoken deal between them. Still, it rubbed a raw spot in her heart, because perhaps she’d toyed with dangerous thoughts over the years. Daydreams they would bump into each other in some improbable way and he’d recognize her. Be happy to see her again, and Phoebe would tell him about the amazing daughter he’d fathered. He’d be eager to meet Sarah, and Phoebe could fulfill the need in her daughter that had always left Phoebe feeling helpless. Cozy little daydreams all fuzzy around the edges that now stabbed her in the heart.
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