“I like frogs, too. But not to drink.”
Grateful for an excuse to get away and cool down from the sight of her, Matt turned back toward the door. “I’ll go and check why we’re not getting any water.”
But his ploy didn’t work. “I’ll come with you,” said Cristy from behind him.
Matt gritted his teeth. Didn’t she realize the effect she was having on him? How much more of it could he take before he did something he might regret?
Cristy followed Matt outside. The ground near the hut comprised softer sand with a scattering of spiky fallen brown, palm leaves. It was still uncomfortable under her bare feet.
But she didn’t admit to it—she was afraid of what she might do if Matt picked her up again and held her close. Like press herself wantonly against him and demand that he take her back inside to that bed and finish what they’d started in the surf.
She blushed. Had she really thought that? What had being shipwrecked done to her normally under-control libido?
But was it shipwreck—or was it Matt? Matt with his great body and devastating smile.
She followed him around to the side of the small building, relishing the sight of his powerful buttocks moving under the damp fabric of his shorts, his strong, muscular legs.
He was so hot! The way he’d swept her up into his arms and carried her through the undergrowth as though she were as light as the seagull feathers that drifted with the wind along the beach. Those muscles weren’t just for show. Then he’d carried her over the threshold.
Cristy paused as the irony of the situation hit her. On her wedding day to Howard she’d been carried over the threshold by another man—and had enjoyed every second of it.
Guiltily, she glanced down at the engagement ring gleaming on the third finger of her left hand. She hadn’t given Howard a thought since she’d set sail on Matt’s boat. How had he explained the whole fiasco to his guests? Was he looking for her? Her lips tightened. That was Howard’s problem—Howard’s and Miriam’s.
Matt turned back and caught her examining her ring. “So your rock survived the swim?”
“Yes, thank heaven, it’s worth a fortune.” She wondered why Matt’s face tightened to a frown. The ring meant nothing to her. But she would safeguard it until she could mail it back to Howard.
“Well you’d better look after it then,” Matt said gruffly, looking at the ring as if it were something loathsome.
He turned the corner of the hut and stopped in front of a large, round corrugated iron tank sitting on top of a wooden stand. He pushed aside some undergrowth and leaned down to find a faucet. He gave it a hard twist. “Not turned on. That’s why there’s no water inside the hut.” His voice was cool and impersonal.
Cristy cleared her throat. “No, frogs, huh?”
“Doesn’t look like it. The water is flowing okay now. You can have your drink.”
Why was he suddenly so grumpy?
“Matt, is there anything the matter?”
He turned to face her. The shutters were down again over the green eyes and that sensual mouth was set in an unyielding line. “No. Apart from the fact that we’re marooned on a deserted island and—”
She faced him squarely. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Didn’t you? Isn’t that enough to worry about?”
Cristy didn’t have an answer. She’d have sworn something else bothered him; he’d seem to change when she’d talked about her engagement ring. But she must have imagined it. Of course he was right—all that would concern him was how to get them off this island, ASAP.
She shrugged her bare shoulders. “I guess you’re right. And now all I want is a drink of water.” The salt burned in her mouth and she was unbearably thirsty. “Do I, uh, get it from the faucet?”
Matt hesitated for a moment. Then he turned back to the tank, crouched down and turned on a smaller faucet at its base. He cupped his lean brown hands and caught the flow of water.
“I’ll see if it’s okay,” he said and drank the water from his hands, the run-off spilling down his chest. “Better than bottled.” He caught some more water, stood up and offered it to her in his cupped hands. “Your turn now.”
He lifted his hands to her mouth. Cristy hesitated, her heart starting to pound. She looked up into his eyes. He moved a step closer, so close she could smell the already familiar sandalwood. He gestured with his head. “Come on, I’m losing it.”
He meant the water trickling slowly through his fingers but Cristy knew she was in danger of losing it in a different sense.
How could she sip water from his hands—his strong, tanned hands that had caressed her body so skillfully? That was a number one no-no in her you-can’t-trust-lust handbook.
But she was thirsty and she didn’t want him to know how badly he affected her. She stepped closer so there were barely inches between them, her eyes meeting his. Then slowly she dipped her head and drank the water from his hands.
His fingers touching her chin were cool, the water was refreshing and pure. There were only a few sips of it, just enough to wet her lips and tongue. She would have to actually lick his hands to get more—and break every last rule in the you-can’t-trust-lust handbook.
His eyes met hers for a long moment. His fingers lingered on her chin before he withdrew his hands.
“More?” he asked, his voice gruff.
Thirsty as she was, Cristy couldn’t trust herself to repeat such an intimate experience. “N… no thank you,” she stuttered, licking her lips to get the last drops of liquid. “There must be some kind of cup in the hut… I… I’ll get some from there.”
“Suit yourself. I can’t wait.” He hunkered down by the faucet and drank handful after handful of water, finishing by sluicing off his face. His hair slicked back dark, droplets of water lingered on his skin. How would it taste to lick the droplets off, one by one?
“That was great,” he said, standing up. “C’mon let’s go back inside, you must be dying for some more.”
It wasn’t just water she was dying for more of. You can’t trust lust, you can’t trust lust, she intoned frantically to herself as she followed Matt back inside the hut, forcing herself to look around her at the splendors of the tropical forest rather than at his sensational back view.
Back in the hut, Matt reached for a past-its-prime enamel mug hanging from a hook on the wall. He let the faucet run for a moment before rinsing the mug then handed it to Cristy. “Primitive, but clean,” he said.
“And guaranteed frog-free,” she added before lifting the mug to her lips.
Matt smiled. He liked Cristy’s sense of humor. He liked her pluckiness, her enthusiasm. And that was on top of liking her amazing breasts and her go-on-forever legs. He found himself inclining closer to her. Maybe he could just drop a kiss on the tempting curve of her bare shoulder and see how she reacted.
But then her engagement ring glinted a warning as she reached for the cup. She was another man’s bride—and Matt lived by a code of honor that did not allow for infidelity. Cristy was engaged, and therefore strictly off limits.
So why did he keep forgetting that and giving into foolish gestures like having her drink from his hands? That interfering white charger needed to be tethered and locked away in its stable—for good.
Cristy drained the mug three times and gave it back to him each time for replenishing. Matt noticed her hands as they gripped the mug. Her fingernails, now freed from their plastic extensions, were short, practical, get-down-and-do-it. And yet she obviously knew the value down to the last dollar of that obscenely large diamond.
What made Cristy tick?
His curiosity about her was growing almost as rapidly as his desire. He found himself hoping the rescue boat wouldn’t arrive too quickly. Getting to know her wasn’t off limits. But so long as she wore that ring, touching her was. He had to deny that desire.
“That was a lifesaver, thank you,” she said with a smile, handing him back the empty mug. “I thought I was going to die of
thirst.”
Then she sneezed. It was a small, delicate sneeze—like the kitten Danny had had when they were kids—but a sneeze just the same.
He eyed her sodden dress, still clinging to her luscious curves, then averted his eyes when he spoke. “You need to get out of those wet clothes.” He tugged at his uncomfortably damp T-shirt. “So do I.”
Cristy’s eyes widened. With alarm or anticipation?
Wishful thinking, mate. She must be as embarrassed as hell at her over-the-top glad-to-be-alive reaction in the water. She regretted it. He did not. But he had to stop remembering the way she kissed, the way she straddled him with her strong, slender thighs, her astounding sensuality. But that was impossible if she was half-naked.
It would be best all round if she covered herself with something dry. For her health’s sake. For his libido’s sake. What could he find in the line of emergency clothing for stranded brides?
He wrenched at the door of the large, rusting locker that stood in the corner opposite the sink. “Could be something we can wear in here.” When the guys came on surveying trips they brought their own camping equipment with them. But perhaps there was stuff left that had belonged to the hut’s original inhabitant.
“Can we recover something from your boat?”
“Too dangerous,” he said. Swimming out to the rocks and attempting to board Wayfarer would be a suicide mission.
The door gave and creaked open, releasing a musty smell. But there was a shelf stacked with household essentials. Better than he had expected. He pulled out two gray, threadbare towels, shook them out in case they harbored spiders, and handed them to her. “We’re in luck.”
Cristy couldn’t disguise her horror. “Is that it?”
“They’re dry. Be thankful.” He didn’t mention the spiders.
She pulled a face. “I guess so. What else is in there?”
She peered around him, her bare shoulders brushing against him, the scent of roses tantalizingly close. He had to take a deep breath to steady himself. Those shoulders were eminently kissable. But strictly off limits.
He pulled out an outsize pair of waterproof fishermen’s waders and held them out in front of him.
“They’re for you,” she said. Her eyes sparkled with laughter and her nose wrinkled up in a way he found delightful. Again, he marveled at her attitude, so at odds with her princess appearance.
He hauled out a few sheets and two scratchy, army-issue blankets. “These sheets are meant for the beds but we’ll use them to improvise as clothes while our own dry off.”
“You mean we wear sheets?”
“Yeah. Like a toga party.”
“A toga party?”
“You know, you get dressed up like ancient Romans. In togas.”
Why did he have to go and say that? All he needed to add was, you know, like for an orgy, to have her run screaming out the door.
Cristy looked at him like he needed to have his head read but her eyes gleamed with good humor. “Right, a toga it shall be. I’ll just be glad to get out of this soggy dress.”
She started to tug at her bodice and Matt couldn’t help but stare at the swell of breast that was revealed. She stopped. “I’d appreciate it if you turned your back.”
He turned away, looked ahead at the rough wooden wall, and forced himself to think of anything but Cristy removing her clothes. Of Cristy revealing her centerfold-lush body.
He could hear rustlings—was that the skirt coming off? The sound of fabric slithering on fabric—was that her underwear? And then an exasperated sigh. “Darn! I can’t manage the buttons. I wonder could you give me a hand?”
Matt forced himself to take a deep, slow breath before he turned around. She was asking him to help undress her? How much more of this could a guy stand?
“Sure,” he managed to choke out.
The bodice of her dress was twisted around where she’d vainly tried to open the row of tiny buttons that ran down her slender back. Her right breast was revealed enough so he could see a hint of pink nipple. He suppressed a groan.
“The buttons have swelled with the water and I can’t get them to budge,” she said, her voice tinged with annoyance. “See what you can do.” She presented her back to him.
For crying out loud! Did she realize what she was asking of him?
He lifted her tangled mass of hair and pushed it away from her neck. Her long, slender creamy neck with the fine blonde hair tendrils feathering into the nape was just begging to be kissed.
The round fabric buttons were fastened into fabric loops that were stiff with salt but slipped off without too much resistance. Matt forced his breathing to stay steady as, one by one, he unfastened the row that went all the way down to the small of her back.
She clutched her dress to her as it fell away to reveal another row of hooks and eyes of some substantial piece of underwear. He felt lightheaded from the smell of roses blended with salt and Cristy’s own womanly smell. He couldn’t stop himself from hardening.
“Will that do?” he asked, unable to keep the irony from his voice. He dropped his hands before he gave into the temptation to caress her.
“Hold on,” she said in a high, strangled voice as she tried to twist her arms back around herself and attempt the hooks and eyes while clutching the remnants of her wedding dress to her chest.
The dress slipped lower. Matt was treated to the sight of her creamy, curvy bottom, clad only in a lacey thong where the corselet ended.
“I can’t quite manage—”
He growled, took her by the shoulders and spun her around to face him. “Don’t ask me to undo anything else,” he said and pulled her to him. He kissed her, hard and hungry, forcing her lips apart with his tongue, crushing her body to his.
With a gasp she stiffened in his arms. Then kissed him back with equal hunger, her arms twined around his neck to pull his head closer, her breath coming in little whimpers of need.
He cupped her bottom with both hands and pulled her closer, let her feel his arousal, pushed her thighs apart with his knee. He started to walk her backward toward the bed.
She stopped, resisted, pulled her mouth away from his. “Matt. No.” He held her tighter for a moment then, with an effort, let her go. The dress slid right down.
She reeled away from him, her face flushed, her eyes bright. She was panting and when she spoke she stumbled over her words. “I… uh… thought we agreed that… that wasn’t a good idea.”
She crossed her arms across her chest but it did nothing to hide the swell of her breasts or her long legs or the delta of her sex covered only by a tiny triangle of lace and satin.
Fighting for control, his breath coming in painful gasps, he glared at her. “Yeah, well don’t keep tempting me like that. Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to start anything you don’t intend to finish?” He threw a sheet at her. “Cover yourself up.”
He turned on his heel and stalked towards the door, slamming it so hard behind him that the walls of the hut shuddered.
Cristy stared after him, clutching the sheet to her. Her breath came in great, heaving gasps. She wanted him. How desperately she wanted him. And now he thought she was nothing but a cheap tease.
She hadn’t meant to taunt him.
For heaven’s sake, they were on an uninhabited island. Who else could she have asked to help her with her buttons?
That was the trouble with being so distrustful of lust—she hadn’t had much experience of it. Although the feel of Matt’s hands on her skin had excited her to almost a frenzy, she hadn’t fully realized the effect it might have had on him.
Her nipples were so hard they were agony and she crossed her legs against the ache between her thighs. She wrung the sheet between her hands in frustration.
She wanted him but she would not—could not—have sex with Matt on the day of her wedding to another man. It went against everything in her personal moral code. Even if she now recognized her planned marriage to Howard had been one more of convenience and
misplaced optimism than true feeling.
She’d schooled herself to be wary of lust. But this was lust so powerful she’d never dreamed it existed. She found it frightening, terrifying even. For she knew just from the kisses they’d shared, that once she’d made love with Matt Slade there would be no other man for her.
Why had she never felt anything remotely like this for Howard—the man she’d promised to marry?
She’d been surprised, but not unhappy, that Howard’s kisses had been so undemanding. Relieved that he’d wanted to wait for anything more than kisses until their wedding night. She’d needed the six weeks to get used to the idea of Howard as lover rather than friend. During their engagement he’d been controlled, gentlemanly, respectful. But that’s certainly not how he’d appeared while he was kissing Miriam.
Lust. Desire. Passion. Whatever name you put to it, that was what Howard felt for the bridesmaid—but not for the bride. And it was what the bride felt for the man who had helped her flee her wedding.
It was all too confusing; and right now Cristy didn’t want to face what she knew she would have to face sooner or later—that by running away from lust, she might have been running away from feeling.
She forced herself to take a deep, calming breath. Untwisted the sheet. Made her way on unsteady feet across to the makeshift sink, splashed cold water on to her face. Then she dragged the corselet fastening around to the front of her body and undid the darn thing, slamming it into the bowl.
The flimsy, uncomfortable excuse for underpants she left on; the fabric was almost dry from the heat of her body. Even though the thong felt like butt floss, she’d feel way too vulnerable without its scant cover. She toweled herself dry, wincing at the scratchiness of the rough fabric. She thought longingly of the luxurious linen towels left behind on Matt’s boat.
Then she folded the sheet in half and managed to fashion it into a sarong, wrapping it around her body and fastening the ends around her neck in a halter. She smoothed the makeshift dress down around her, grateful that it fell below her knees rather more modestly than the scrap that remained of her wedding dress.
The Castaway Bride Page 7
