Well, she would show him. Before he could move she had dragged the dinghy down the sand to the water and threw herself into it.
‘What the hell are you doing? Come back here!’
Words weren’t going to stop her. She scrabbled for the oars lying in the small boat, and thrust them into the row-locks, missing one and having to try again. When she had them in place she began to haul on the oars to move the boat, anywhere as long as it was away from this island.
Progress was slow, and she became aware of Harry standing knee-deep in the shallows, his hands planted on his hips as he watched her with illconcealed annoyance. The sight gave her a moment of grim satisfaction. As far as she knew he didn’t have another boat, and his cruiser was laid up, so he couldn’t stop her.
It wasn’t until she reached the centre of the lagoon and the drag on her arms reminded her of how far it was back to the mainland, that sanity began to return. She couldn’t possibly row all the way to Thursday Island, and there was nowhere else to go, except to crawl ignominiously back to Harry.
This thought made her set her jaw more firmly. To hell with Harry. There had to be another way.
Suddenly the boat began to rock alarmingly, tipping from side to side with such force that she had to grab the sides to avoid being tossed into the water. Her first terrified thought was of sharks, but there were none inside the coral reef and she hadn’t yet crossed it. Then the boat almost turned over and she was dumped into the water, tumbling down and down until she collided with the sandy bottom.
She choked on salt water, struggling to reach the air above. Hampered by her skirt, which clung to her legs, she put all her strength into kicking for the surface. Before she reached it strong arms clasped her and lifted her head above water.
‘You bastard,’ she gasped as she saw what sort of predator had tipped her out of the boat. She rained blows against his chest in helpless frustration. ‘You tried to drown me.’
His legs pumped powerfully beneath her, supporting them both. ‘I saved you from drowning,’ he said calmly. ‘Another few yards and you’d have been across the bar. The sea could have swamped your boat, then you’d have been shark bait.’
‘Oh, God.’ Reaction gripped her and she sagged against him. He didn’t seem to mind and clasped the back of her head, pulling her tight against his chest. Whorls of wet chest hair teased her cheek, sending up flares of response all the way to the centre of her being.
Confusion swamped her. Here was a man who had betrayed her then tried to drown her, ostensibly for her own good. Yet she was responding to him like Juliet to Romeo. She must be mad, sexcrazed, anything but sane and sensible.
With his arm across her chest he began to tow her back to shore. ‘What about the boat?’ she asked, trying not to notice the disturbing effect his movements were having on her peace of mind. Held so close to him, she was disturbingly aware of every masculine muscle and contour. His wet clothes clung to him like a second skin, outlining every rippling movement. She swallowed hard. Where was her will to escape now?
‘The tide will wash the dinghy back in,’ he said, his breathing deep and even as he guided them through the shallows.
She struggled ineffectually in his grasp. ‘I can swim the rest of the way on my own.’
‘I didn’t go through this to lose you now. Relax and trust me, if only this once. And, for crying out loud, shut up. I can’t talk and swim at the same time.’
It was a strange sensation, relaxing in the crystal-clear water which was as warm as a bath, allowing Harry to do all the hard work. Tufts of seaweed drifted by, small silvery fish nibbling at their edges. At the beach they disturbed a manta ray, which rose majestically in a puff of sand and winged its way out to sea.
What had she expected to achieve with her crazy gesture? She hadn’t really intended to row back to TI and there was nowhere else to go. Had she wanted Harry to come after her and save her from herself? If so she was a blind, stupid fool. He was in league with Tyler Thornton and no amount of grand gestures altered the fact.
So why did her heart persist in pounding like the surf against the shore when he placed her gently on the sand? It couldn’t be exertion. He had done all the work. So it had to be the intoxicating way his gaze held hers as he loomed over her. When his mouth sought hers there was a dizzying inevitability about it, and she gave herself up to the sweet sensation.
Instead of kissing her his mouth hovered over hers, tantalising her. ‘What are you doing?’ she whispered.
‘You nearly drowned. I’m giving you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.’
About to remind him that drowning victims were usually unconscious, she throttled the words back. It would be a terrible waste, not to be able to savour every moment of her own rescue. The thought made her part her lips expectantly.
At the blatant invitation his breathing quickened, and he bent his head, puffing small breaths into her mouth. The sensation was unbelievable and turmoil roiled inside her. This wasn’t a kiss. It was pure seduction. She ran a tongue around suddenly dry lips.
His remaining control snapped and he crushed her mouth under his as his fingers traced the line of her jaw and throat with eager, mind-numbing caresses. Her fingers dug into his back and she moaned softly, drowning now for sure, but in quite a different way.
Desperately she tried to think of all the reasons why this was wrong, but none of them came to mind. They were blanked out by the irresistible hunger of her need for him. The feeling was so powerful that it rocked her to her foundations. No more could she deny it than she could have rowed all the way back to Thursday Island.
He made a crooning noise deep in his throat, raining kisses over her brow and eyelids until she was on fire with wanting him.
‘Harry, please,’ she pleaded. Somehow it came out as an invitation.
‘I know, love, I know.’ He buried his face in the curve of her shoulder. She gasped as his teeth nipped the silken skin, then he pushed aside the straps of her sundress to expose her unfettered breasts to the golden sunlight. His hands moulded them until her nipples strained against his palms.
When he kissed first one, then the other, wildfire tore through her. She pressed her mouth to the top of his head, cradling his neck while he inhaled her feminine essence. His chest was hard against her, slick with sea-water and salt residue, and the rough feel of it sensitised her skin in a thousand places until she was one mindless, quivering mass of sensation.
An urgent warning rang in her brain. ‘Say my name, Harry,’ she implored, hearing her own voice sounding passion-drugged and languorous. But there was no mistaking the urgency of her request.
He lifted his head and his slitted gaze slid over her. ‘Lisanko Nikitayevna Alexandrov,’ he drawled, sounding out each syllable with husky precision.
Her soft sigh of contentment rippled between them. This time he knew exactly who she was. ‘Just checking,’ she murmured.
Mock anger sparked in his eyes. ‘In that case, I should do a little checking of my own.’
Her sodden dress was twisted around her hips. He bit his lip as he carried out his own inspection of her tanned limbs, sprawled wantonly on the sand. His throaty murmurs told her he approved of what he saw.
She made herself lie still until he had completed his inspection, kissing each part of her to seal his approval. ‘Do I pass?’ she asked as his lips trailed down her legs, sending waves of pleasure shooting along her spine. It was hard to believe he could arouse her with a look, but his minute inspection managed it somehow. She was on fire by the time he finished.
‘You’ll do,’ he said with a lazy grin which didn’t quite conceal his own excitement. His eyes burned and his heart raced when she pressed her hand to it. With a throaty exclamation he grabbed her hand and guided it lower until she was left in no doubt as to his response to her.
The reality of Harry as her lover eclipsed her wildest dreams. He was more tender, more passionate, more dominant and more inventive than she had dreamed. The powdery sand cr
adled them as gently as a couch while the waves lapping at their feet created a whole new range of sensations.
She clung to him wildly, blindly, driven by his passion and her own desperate need. He was driven, too, she saw, holding himself back only by a mighty effort of will until he sensed that she was ready to soar with him on a joyous climactic surge of abandonment.
When it came her eyes widened with shock and wonder. Nothing in her experience had prepared her for this. The roaring of the sea mingled with that of the blood in her ears, then there was blackness.
Seconds later she surfaced to find Harry painting butterfly kisses along her hairline. ‘Did I pass out?’ she asked, bewildered.
‘It’s been known to happen,’ he murmured against her ear.
Alarm spun through her. ‘Does that mean there’s something wrong with me?’
‘It means there’s something very right. I’ve never known a woman like you, Lisa. You’re something special.’
He propped himself up on one elbow. The tide had risen slightly and the water lapped around their ankles. She cupped her hands behind her head and looked up at him. ‘I came down here to fight with you,’ she reminded him, her tone tinged with wonder.
His lazy grin warmed her. ‘Madam, I do like the way you fight.’
Reality was beginning to seep back as steadily as the rising tide. ‘You know what I mean. I hate the thought of your working with Tyler Thornton.’
He grazed a finger along the curve of her hip, making a mockery of her seriousness. How could she think straight when his touch threw her thoughts into chaos? He saw the flicker of annoyance on her face and withdrew his hand. ‘I’m not working with Tyler Thornton,’ he said heavily. ‘But I did give him the tip-off which started this whole thing.’
She sat up, shedding droplets of sea-water. ‘You what?’
‘It’s a long story. Maybe we should go back to the house.’
‘Maybe we should.’ As she stood up she was aware of how her waterlogged dress clung to her body, outlining every curve. Normally she would have felt self-conscious under his gaze. Now she was too preoccupied with what he’d just said. How could he make love to her, knowing he was the cause of her problems? He probably needed the walk back to the house to come up with a convincing explanation.
As he bent to retrieve his shorts she noticed the red marks of her fingers on his shoulders. Shame flooded through her. She couldn’t even blame his silver tongue for what had just happened. She had wanted it every bit as much as he had. Her mistake had been in thinking of it as a beginning when, to Harry, it was an end in itself.
Back at the house, she showered quickly, aware as she sluiced herself down of the heightened sensitivity in her body. Her skin felt raw, her nerveendings electrified. She should be appalled at her own lack of restraint, but instead she felt released from a tension which had been building inside her since she’d encountered Harry again on Thursday Island. Who was it who’d said that the best way to get rid of temptation was to yield to it?
She had certainly yielded to it, she thought with a hollow feeling. She had never behaved so recklessly in her life. And now to find out that Harry had put Tyler Thornton on her trail.
If she’d possessed wings she would have flown away from the island rather than face Harry again. It was too humiliating to accept that she had let him make love to her on any terms, even knowing he was tied up with Thornton. What sort of woman did that make her?
He was much more composed by the time he’d showered and changed into a fresh pair of Stubbies’ shorts. Still no shirt, and her senses leapt at the sight of his bronzed chest, remembering the feel of his rough hair against her cheek. Her eyes travelled to where the shorts rode low on his hips, and she felt colour creep up her face as she looked quickly away.
‘Not regretting what we did?’ he asked, observing her reaction.
‘Of course I am,’ she snapped back. ‘You’ve already admitted that you set me up by bringing me here. How could I have let myself…?’ She couldn’t go on. Her hands flew up to cover her face.
With an oath he wrenched them away. ‘Look at me, Lisa. I did not, repeat, not set you up with Thornton or anyone else.’
‘Then what did you mean about tipping him off?’
‘Exactly what I said. When I was researching your father’s biography I left some notes in my computer at the newspaper where I was working. They weren’t supposed to be accessed without my password. Thornton was working on the same paper and somehow got into my files. The story he’s chasing now was triggered by what he learned.’
She curled herself on to a wicker chair, pulling her legs up underneath her. ‘Why did he wait so long to do anything about it?’
‘There was no point pursuing it at the time. Your parents were the only ones who knew the full story, and they would never talk to the likes of Thornton.’
‘So what has changed since then?’
‘Information is much easier to get out of Russia nowadays. He can follow it up more easily. But, most importantly, your mother had the only proof that the story was true.’
‘The mysterious photo,’ she said on a sighing breath.
He nodded. ‘The photo. Thornton believes that you inherited it, and he wants to get his hands on it.’
An involuntary shudder shook her. ‘So you agreed to help him get it from me?’
His hands clamped on to her shoulders and he shook her slightly. ‘I did not agree to help him. I let him think I would so he’d leave you alone.’ He took a step back, his fingers stabbing through his damp hair which curled across his forehead like an inverted question mark. ‘I felt responsible for getting you into this. It was the only way I could get you out of it.’
An arctic wind of despair swept through her. Guilt had prompted him to bring her here. He blamed himself for her. predicament and wanted to make amends. It wasn’t the romantic scenario she’d allowed herself to fantasise about.
‘Now do you believe me?’
She gave a hollow laugh. ‘Oh, yes, I believe you. In fact, it makes a lot of things much clearer.’
His hard gaze bored into her. ‘It has nothing to do with what happened just now, if that’s what you think.’
Now she knew he was telling the truth. Making love to her had been an isolated event, fuelled by the needs of the moment—which was precisely why she felt so bereft. The only face-saving way out was to be as casual about it as Harry was being, pretend it hadn’t mattered any more to her than it had to him.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, keeping the hurt out of her voice. ‘I’m not one of Alf Nawi’s people. I don’t consider us engaged just because of a quick fling on the beach.’
Her choice of words made him wince. ‘You have changed, Lisa.’
Her hurt came out as anger. ‘It’s more than I can say for you. The story’s still the most important thing, isn’t it? Obtained by fair means or foul.’
‘I did not make love to you to get information,’ he ground out, his grey eyes sparking with anger.
‘I know.’
He regarded her suspiciously from under lowered lids. ‘Why do I get the feeling that there’s more to this?’
‘Because there is. I saw the manuscript in your room, remember? The World’s Best-Kept Secrets, isn’t it? One of them wouldn’t be my mother’s, by any chance?’
‘Yes, it would, but——’
She didn’t give him chance to finish. ‘So you decided to beat Tyler Thornton to it. I believe the correct journalistic term is scoop him.’
She held her breath. More than anything she wanted him to deny it so that she could believe that he was truly protecting her from the other journalist. ‘I was going to write about it, yes,’ he admitted after a long pause. ‘But only because Marya wanted the story told. She wanted me to write it after her death, precisely so it wouldn’t be distorted by the likes of Thornton. Why do you think your father wanted his biography written by me?’
‘So it wouldn’t be sensationalised afterwards
,’ she echoed, remembering Nikita’s reasoning. Knowing that Harry was carrying out her mother’s last wish didn’t lessen the hurt of how he had used her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the book?’ she asked.
‘Would you have come with me if you’d known?’
‘No.’
He spread his hands wide, palms upwards. ‘I intended to tell you as soon as I was sure you’d understand.’
‘Oh, I understand all right. If Thornton gets the story first your book isn’t worth anything. But you’re both going to be disappointed. There is no photo and no scoop. I don’t even know what this is all about.’
He pulled a chair closer to her and crossed an ankle over one knee. His closeness set her pulses racing but she damped them down. She’d been as weak as she intended to be where he was concerned.
‘There isn’t a lot to tell, but it’s time you heard it,’ he began. ‘Does the name Lyudmila Duskov mean anything to you?’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘LYUDMILA DUSKOV was related to the Russian royal family. When the tsar and his family died in 1917 she was only a child, but because she posed a threat to the regime her name was changed, and she kept quiet ever after. Her name stays in my mind because my mother’s sister had the same first name.’
‘She had the same last name as well, Lisa.’
‘Are you saying she was my aunt?’ When Harry nodded she shook her head. ‘You’re wrong. My aunt’s surname was Chekhov.’
‘Lyudmila Chekhov didn’t exist until your mother came to Australia,’ he said evenly. ‘Did Marya ever talk to you about her sister?’
‘No, and I didn’t press her because it upset her so. In any case, Lyudmila died before I was born.’
‘On the same day Lyudmila Duskov died, unknown in her own country and to the world. Doesn’t that strike you as coincidental?’
Island of Dreams Page 10
