by Robyn Grady
After a couple of tugs, attempting to weaken the wood, he was quietly worried. He inhaled, rallied determination, and gave another, more serious wrench. A small piece broke off, then a bit more. No screams of pain; she gave little more than a thankful shudder as he freed her foot a second before water swept up and their world became a muted, cold-rush blur.
Fully submerged, holding his breath, he relied on his sense of touch to scoop the woman up and heave them both clear of the churning pool. He trudged well out of tide range and, on a sparsely grassed knoll, laid her down. Any minute the steady pump of adrenaline would give way to the burn of muscle fatigue, but for now he’d keep moving.
How bad were her injuries?
As she worked to catch her breath, Gabriel knelt close and collected her ankle. No compound fractures. When he rode two fingers over the arch of her foot, her peach-polished toes flexed up. Cupping her heel with one hand, his other palm resting on her shin, he applied a token amount of pressure to test the ligament. When she didn’t complain, he applied a bit more. She cringed, but didn’t cry out.
Brave girl.
There were nasty scratches and welts that would ripen to bruises. She’d need an X-ray, and a day or two of rest, but—fingers crossed—in a month or so her ankle would look as good as new.
Searching for other wounds, his gaze travelled the length of her leg, and higher. But at a tug low in his gut—a kick of kindling heat—he averted his eyes and cleared his throat. Inviting as she looked—wet tee-shirt moulding to the swell of her breasts, nipples puckered beneath transparent white interlock—this was so not the time.
He swept sand into a slanting step with one hand and then, to help with the swelling, set her foot upon the “pillow.” Finally falling back on his rump, he laid one forearm on a raised knee, dragged down a settling breath, then blew it out in a rush. His heart was chugging like a steam train. He hadn’t felt this juiced in years—not since torturing himself competing in triathlons in his late teens. Great for building stamina. Not so good for fending off ghosts.
He told her, “Nothing appears to be broken.” Thank God.
Her chest deflated as she wheezed out a breath. “You sure? Coz it really isn’t my day.”
He grinned at her impish tone, her slight but sexy lisp. “You’re scratched up, and—”
“My God—” Her eyes went wide in horror. “So are you.”
As if to prove her point, a warm trickle slid past the corner of his eye. He ran his thumb over his temple, inspected the smear of blood, then swiped the red on his soaked chinos.
No headache. No sting. “Nothing serious.”
Her unconvinced gaze zigzagged over his scored torso. “That’s a whole pile of ‘nothing serious,’ if you ask me.”
Her concern was appreciated, but he’d live. Thankfully so would she.
“There doesn’t appear to be any ligament damage.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“An accountant.”
She looked uneasy. “No offence, but I thought accountants were supposed to wear black-rimmed glasses and look kind of nerdy.”
He smiled. “No offence taken.”
He’d worn just that type of glasses once—not that she needed to know. They were strangers, thrown together by situation and sheer luck. Of course that didn’t mean they couldn’t get to know one another. Might be the extraordinary circumstances, the overload of adrenaline, but somehow she seemed…
Different.
Oh, he dated. Hard not to when he was considered one of the country’s most eligible bachelors, and friends constantly set him up with “possibilities.” And, sure, women were nice. Hell, he wouldn’t want to live in a world without them. But he was way too busy to worry about relationships. Too busy for anything other than casual.
As if that thought were a wish, an alternative vision of this woman swam up in his mind. With the tee removed, shortie-shorts too, her tan would be all over, her breasts mouth-wateringly full. The vee at the apex of her thighs shone with a tantalising tuft of caramel-gold—and why, dear heaven, was he letting his imagination run away on him like this?
Gabriel scrubbed his bristled jaw and shook his head clear.
Okay. Cold showers—and/or oceans—weren’t cutting it any more. It had been way too long. Still, he could control his overloaded testosterone levels. Willpower, in everything, was his speciality.
He squared his shoulders, then moved to check the contusion on her head. After parting the clotted hair, his fingertips circled the injury and she hissed.
“Sorry,” he murmured, then, “No cut. But you’ve got an egg.”
“Laid by an emu, feels like.”
Cupping her chin, he checked for uneven dilation of the pupils. When her large jewelled eyes blinked up at him, his groin flexed. Clearing his throat, he reminded himself of their circumstances and edged away.
“You were knocked out. Do you remember how it happened? Your name? Is there any ringing in your ears?”
What were the other signs of concussion?
But she didn’t appear to be listening. Rather, those sparkling topaz eyes, surrounded by lush damp lashes, were examining him with new, almost innocent wonder.
“You were standing up there, weren’t you? On that cliff.”
His brows jumped. “You saw me?”
“Only for a moment.” Her gaze dropped before catching his again. “This’ll sound crazy, but as I blacked out I thought you were…Well, I thought you were an angel.”
He chuckled at her almost reverent tone. “Sorry to disappoint you again.” Not a doctor. Definitely not an angel.
As a late afternoon breeze rustled through the palm fronds, and seagulls squawked overhead, her eyes glistened and her brow furrowed more.
“Still, you…you seem familiar.”
Really?
Maybe it was more than seaside memories that made her seem familiar too. Had they met before? At a dinner? Maybe they lived in the same neighbour-hood? Potts Point, Sydney, was pricey, but then anyone vacationing at Diamond Shores had money and plenty of it.
Before he could ask, she held her head and groaned over an apologetic smile.
“I’m all muddled. My head feels like it’s packed with cotton wool.”
“I’m not surprised.”
She needed that knock checked out properly, along with some painkillers and an appropriate bandage for her foot. She needed civilisation, asap.
“Give me a moment,” he said, determined to ignore the creak of tightening hamstrings, “and I’ll get you to a doctor.”
The island enjoyed a full-time physician, as well as a seaplane and an emergency helicopter, both of which, he believed, served French champagne. Luxury at its decadent best.
“That’d be great,” she said, tipping up. “You can lend me an arm. Or I could use a branch for a crutch.”
He urged her back down. She needed to rest and lie flat. “You’re not walking anywhere.”
Her doubtful gaze drilled his. “What’ll we do, then? Close our eyes and click our heels three times?”
He grinned. Cute.
“I’ll carry you.”
“All the way to the resort?” She half coughed, half laughed. “Your arms will break off.”
He cocked a brow. “I assure you they won’t.”
Her cheeks pinked up before she gave a conciliatory sigh. “Look, I appreciate everything you’ve done. You’ve been two hundred percent chivalrous and I’ll be forever grateful. But I’m not exactly a flyweight.”
Correct. She was shapely. Voluptuous, really. Precisely how a woman ought to be.
He cut short his discreet assessment at the same time as she pushed back up on her elbows and sent over an all-settled, I’m-used-to-getting-my-own-way smile. “So, we’re agreed?”
His hand on her shoulder eased her down again. “Lie flat.” She didn’t need to risk nausea or dizziness. “I’ll do whatever needs to be done.”
“That can’t include giving yourself a heart atta
ck.” Her eyes lit up. “I know. You can go for help and I’ll wait here.”
“You need medical attention now, not later.”
Besides, he wouldn’t leave her alone. She might get it into her head that she knew best and try to limp back to the resort.
“You don’t understand,” she said. “I was big-boned before getting friendly with the food here. If you’ve tried the desserts, you’ll know you can’t stop at one.”
Her lush lips were soft and parted now, and a delicate pulse beat at the base of her throat. I wonder what that pulse would feel like against my tongue? Gabriel thought.
Wonder what she’d be like in bed?
“Hello?” she cooed. “Are you listening?”
He grunted, drove a hand through his hair. “Sure. Delicious. No control.”
She nodded, then winced and touched her head. “You’re all fired up, and obviously capable, but I can’t have you putting your back out.” She pushed up again. “And, seeing I have final say in the matter—”
“Absolutely you have a say.” He tipped her back down. “You can say, Yes, sir.”
Her mouth dropped open and a mew of outrage escaped.
Doubly determined, she pushed up again. “I didn’t realise I’d joined the army.”
“I’ll count to three,” he warned, half hoping she’d defy him.
She didn’t disappoint. “I’m more than capable of making my own decisions, thank you very much.”
Done with words, he pointed at the ground. When her face hardened with a you-can’t-make-me look, his jaw shifted. He admired spunk, but only one person was in charge here and it was time she learned who that was.
In one smooth, purposeful movement, he angled closer, crowding her back as he bent forward until, eyes gone wide, she lay horizontal again. By the time he stopped crowding, his head was slanted over hers and their mouths all but touched.
His gaze licked her lips as he grinned.
“You were saying?”
Chapter Two
STARING into the wicked eyes of a beast, Nina kept still and swallowed hard.
There she’d been, wondering if she could possibly get out of that fix alive, then pow! So broad through the chest, so capable and infuriatingly confident, this superhero type showed up out of nowhere.
But she was confused. Where did he fit on her character chart? Was this man exceptionally good, or primarily perfectly bad?
Anyone with half a brain and a pair of scales must see he couldn’t carry her all the way back to the resort. Nevertheless, he hadn’t merely dismissed her suggestions. He’d gone so far as to pin her body beneath his to get his point across.
She was trapped. She should be fuming!
Instead her nerve-endings simmered with indisputable awareness, and her fuzzy brain kept wondering how well his lips might fit closed over hers.
“You’re quiet,” he noted, his mouth a hair’s breadth from hers.
Wondering if he might manacle her wrists next—and not wholly against the idea—she squirmed. “I’m thinking.”
“About behaving, I hope.”
His voice was rough, dangerously deep, and the whisper of his breath against her lips felt far less invasive than it ought to.
“Do I need to point out,” she said, “that I’m not the one behaving badly?”
“Won’t make a difference. If I let you have your way, you could do yourself another injury.” Wet dark hair flopped over his brow when he cocked his head. “Or would you rather I ignore the fact you might have concussion?”
“I’d rather you quit with the caveman mentality.”
He growled and leaned a smidge closer. “You’re only alive because that caveman mentality got me to you before the sharks tucked in for dinner.”
She held her breath while her heart thumped high in her chest.
Oh, crap. She hated to admit it, but his brutish logic made sense. He would never convince her he could carry her all the way back to the resort, but her head did feel light. If she stood up now, tried to walk, she might very well fall over. Maybe even knock herself out a second time. Like it or not, in a roughish kind of way, he was still rescuing her—protecting her—this time from herself.
She issued a reluctant nod and, fire fading from his eyes, he curled away.
As he repositioned himself beside her, the sinking sun fell behind his head, bathing his splendid form in a golden-rose halo. Nina squeezed her eyes shut, then looked again. He wasn’t an angel. She was certain of that now. And yet his presence, this scene, everything about this time here with him seemed surreal. Make-believe.
Maybe she was still unconscious? Maybe her lungs were filled with water and she’d hallucinated all this while succumbing to the final phase of drowning? Was she experiencing some incredible dream on her way to the hereafter? That wasn’t so unlikely. She’d heard stories before.
Was any of this real?
Determined to find out, she reached and touched his pec, an inch above that small flat nipple. Her fingertip sizzled like creamy butter on a hotplate, at the same time as her centre glowed and blood tingled with fresh life. As her fingers fanned over the black, crisp hair, bolts of crackling electricity ripped through her veins. His flesh was so firm, so masculine and—
She stopped.
Inched her gaze up.
He was looking down his aquiline nose at her fingers—which were kneading the warm cushioned steel as if they belonged there.
Tilting his cleft chin, he raised a dark brow and his entrancing eyes met hers.
“Let me know when it’s my turn.”
She snatched her hand away. Her breathing was all over the place again and her face was flaming. Simply put, she wanted to die.
“I was just…er…just making sure they were—I mean, that you were—” Embarrassed beyond words, she spat out the rest. “I was making sure you were real.”
“Oh, is that what you were doing?”
His lopsided grin drew a crease down one side of that highly kissable mouth. And his eyes…
They were so clear and bright and laughing.
Laughing at her.
She understood why. She was acting like a loon. A suspicious, ungrateful, concussed, groping loon.
But then his gaze sharpened and his expression changed.
“Are you cold?” he asked, edging close again.
“I don’t think so.” But that noise…Were her teeth chattering? Checking out the clouds building to black overhead, she shivered and instinctively hugged herself. “I am kind of shaky.”
A line cut between his brows and he cupped her chin, turned her head gently one way then the next. His gaze intensified, and for a giddy moment Nina imagined she’d fallen head-first into those amazing ice-blue eyes. When he checked her pulse against his platinum Omega, she relented and played compliant patient. After six weeks of serving other people’s every whim, there was part of her that needed this one-on-one attention, mandatory though the attention might be.
“What’s the verdict, Doc?” Did he want her to open her mouth and say ah?
Her answer came when he rolled his shoulders back and peeled off his shirt. Her eyes popped out of her head. Mamma mia. What a specimen.
“You need to be kept warm,” he told her, stripping a sleeve off one dynamite arm and then the other.
“Thanks,” she managed to wheeze, “but I don’t think a wet shirt will cut it.”
“Body heat will.”
“Y-you’re going to hold me?”
He blindly tossed the shirt on a bush, then loomed over her, the chiselled planes of his face unforgivably close. “Any objection?”
Her gaze zeroed in on his mouth, on the dusky pink of his full bottom lip, and her pelvic floor muscles squeezed.
She’d tried to refuse him before and her opposition had got her nowhere. If anything, being obstinate had made matters worse. An air of entitlement, albeit tempered by GQ looks and bad-boy charm, was a quality that stuck in her craw. She’d kow-towed to similar sort
s too often these past weeks…people who would once have classed her as their equal.
All that aside, this guy was no idiot. If he said she needed to be held—hell, he was probably right. And if she must be gathered up against some unknown body…heck, it might as well be his.
When she mustered a haughty look and shrugged one shoulder, he scooped an arm beneath her neck.
“Tell me if I hurt you,” he said, careful of her bump and her foot as he lay beside her.
He drew her close until her ear rested on the plateau of flesh and muscle below his collarbone. Despite her irritation, she almost sighed when one iron-warm palm splayed over the small of her back, pressing her deftly against his powerhouse length.
His breath brushed her ear. “How’s that?”
She could be smarmy, could fib and say she was uncomfortable; she was in a way—only because he had, indeed, been right. It seemed those remarkable arms gathering her near were exactly what her traumatised body had needed.
Comfort…a masculine mountain of it.
She buried her nose in his chest and mumbled, “Better.”
She imagined his grin. “Good.”
He was damp but hot, as if a furnace were blazing away beneath the skin, and when she closed her eyes everything but the impression of security and strength faded from mind. His earthy scent, mixed with a lingering hint of aftershave or soap, burrowed into her pores and played havoc with her rag-taggle reason.
This felt nice. He felt nice. Nice and strong and not-so-plain-or-simple sexy.
She inwardly sighed.
Oh, why not admit it? The throb in the base of her belly wasn’t a consequence of relief or gratitude, or even exasperation. It was desire—the forbidden, molten lava kind that blocked out other stimuli, heightened each sense and alerted every fibre. It was the kind of intense physical attraction that had her half convinced she needed to dissolve into this man right here, right now, or simply cease to be.
Crazy.
Clearly the knock on her head had bumped the arousal lever in her brain up to high. Every synapse seemed to have direct dial to the pulse ticking merrily away between her thighs. Every nerve-ending was wired to zap the burning tips of her breasts. All of which made her horribly nervous.
