India swallowed. “He was wearing a loincloth.”
“Yeah?” Ryder’s hands dropped to his belt buckle. “Well, I don’t have a loincloth.”
India swung around to stare off over the lake, its brilliant blue surface ruffled now by an evening breeze. “Why does everyone keep taking off their clothes?”
He laughed, a rich, throaty sound that seemed to vibrate in her blood. “This is the South Pacific. If you had any sense, you’d take yours off, too. You’re going to get wet.”
Without looking at him, India bent to strip off her own boots and stockings, then swooped up the bundle he had made of his clothes. “I shall endeavor to keep your things out of the water.”
“You endeavor to do that.” She heard him splash into the water, the makeshift raft floating at his side. “Are you coming?”
She tried, she really tried not to look directly at him. But he was there, big and bronzed and naked, the hard thighs of his spread legs far too near when she waded into the water, her tartan skirt already heavy and dripping as she scrambled onto the lashed stems. The makeshift raft tipped violently back and forth, then settled into a gentle rocking. India grabbed the lashings with one hand, and used the other to balance his clothes, her boots, and her knapsack on top of her head, like a Senegalese vendeuse on her way to market.
“If this thing falls apart—” he began.
“It won’t fall apart.”
“Yeah. Well, if it does”—he pushed the raft ahead of him and waded deeper, the sun-spangled water rippling out around his lean hips—“just relax and let me get you to shore.”
“I am capable of executing a crude dog paddle.”
His only response was a noncommittal grunt. The water was lapping against his chest now. He struck out into an easy sidestroke, half pushing, half pulling the lashed banana stalks beside him. A good inch or two of water washed over the green ribbed surface, but it stayed afloat. “If you ask me,” he said, “the weight of that damned wool skirt of yours is liable to sink us before we’re halfway across the lake. You should have taken it off.”
“The lake in the mountains of Malay was much wider than this one, and we crossed without incident.”
“Yeah?” He ducked down to skim along just below the surface, then rose, shaking his dark head, fine droplets flying out to sparkle in the sun. “Well, maybe Malay banana stems are more substantial than Takaku banana stems.”
Beneath her, the banana stalks groaned and shifted ominously. India cleared her throat and threw a quick glance around. “There aren’t crocodiles in these waters, are there?”
He laughed. “Now you decide to start worrying about crocodiles, do you? When you think you might go swimming? What about me?”
India tightened her hold on the lashings and felt them loosen beneath her grip. “Mr. Ryder,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm, “are there or are there not crocodiles in these waters?”
He gave her a wide, nasty smile. “Not to my knowledge.”
India squinted toward the slowly approaching shore, trying to gauge the distance. The water flowing over the top of the raft grew deeper. “And how extensive is your knowledge, precisely?”
“I think you’re about to find out,” he said, just as the lashings gave way and the separating rows of banana stalks rolled slowly from beneath her.
Chapter Sixteen
RATHER THAN PLUNGING dramatically beneath the waves, India simply subsided inexorably into them.
When the water reached her breasts, she kicked out with both feet, one hand flailing in an awkward attempt to keep herself afloat. She let go of her boots, his bundle, everything except the knapsack, which she held desperately aloft, her arm thrust straight from the water like the mast of a doomed ship.
“Bloody hell, woman,” she heard him yelp beside her. “My clothes.”
“Damn your clothes,” she said with a gasp, then choked when she swallowed a backwash of lake water. “My notebook.”
“Give me that.” He yanked the knapsack from her grasp, and she let out a faint mew of protest, fearing he meant to toss it away. Instead, he held it easily above the surface of the lake, his legs and one arm moving effortlessly through the water as she thrashed and splashed beside him. “Can you make it to shore by yourself ?”
She nodded, afraid to open her mouth lest she swallow more water.
He took her at her word and struck out toward the bank, only occasionally glancing back to where she flailed along in his wake. Her wool skirt was unbelievably heavy, dragging her down, making each kick, every movement a weighted chore. A wave slapped her in the face and she faltered, her head sinking, briefly, beneath the surface. She sputtered up, blind now to the blue sky and the tree-fringed shore, to anything except water. Water splashed in her eyes, washed into her mouth, stretched out endlessly before her.
“If you put down your feet,” said a low, amused voice beside her, “I think you’ll find you can touch.”
She reached down with one foot, tentatively, doubtfully, and found solid ground beneath her. “Oh, God,” she said with a heartfelt gasp, and felt Ryder’s arm come around her waist. “Oh, thank God.”
For one weak, shameful moment, she allowed herself to collapse against him as he hauled her coughing and gasping into the shallows. She hunched over, hands on her shaking knees as she sucked great droughts of clean, fresh air deep into her lungs. At first, she was only dimly conscious of the man who stood behind her, his strong arm holding her braced against him, one hand keeping the loose tangle of her hair back from her face as she retched and choked.
But as her breathing slowed and her fear subsided, she found her attention captured, inexplicably, beguilingly, by the bare male foot that nestled casually beside hers. She straightened slowly, her hands closing around the muscled forearm that rode low on her waist, every fiber of her being aware of the power of the hard, naked thighs pressing so intimately against her flanks. It was as if time ground down and slowed to a heart-pounding tempo played by the whisper of the wind through the sun-kissed palms and the exotic pulse of the nearby surf. Then he said, “I think you need to improve your dog paddle,” and the moment was broken.
She pushed away from him, her wet skirt hanging heavy about her legs, tripping her as she slogged up onto the grassy bank toward where he had thrown her knapsack.
“Either that,” he added, splashing behind her, “or learn to take off that damned tartan before you go swimming.”
“I hadn’t intended to go swimming, remember?” She fell to her knees beside the knapsack, water streaming from her hair, running down her arms, dripping off her nose as she wrenched open the flap and peered desperately inside.
“You’re going to get it wet.”
He was right, of course. She sat back on her heels, her upper body twisting around as she stared back at the sun-dazzled surface of the lake. She had suddenly remembered what else she’d been holding. “I’ve lost my boots.”
“Your boots?” His low, throaty laugh drew her attention to where he stood at the water’s edge, his hands on his hips, his legs planted wide. For one stolen moment, she let her gaze rove freely, almost hungrily over the lean, naked length of him, over his strong, muscled back and narrow waist, the enticing curve of his buttocks, the long, powerful line of thigh and calf. He was as sun-bronzed as a native, his skin tight and smooth and golden, and the beauty of him, the raw sensual power of him, stole her breath all over again. “You lost my bloody clothes.”
“Huh. That will teach you to strip them off at every opportunity that is offered. Some of us have more sense.”
“More sense?” He swung around, and she quickly lifted her gaze to the feathery tops of the palms waving against the deep blue sky. “That damned wet tartan of yours is what sank the raft.”
India straightened slowly, her split skirt and shirt hanging limp and dripping about her. “You could dive for them, couldn’t you? I remember when I was in Bangkok, I watched the children there diving for coins tossed into the h
arbor. And the water in Bangkok’s harbor is considerably murkier than that of this lake.”
He was silent for so long that her gaze drifted downward for one, unguarded moment before resolutely snapping back to the treetops. “Well? Couldn’t you?”
“I tell you what,” he said, his voice taking on that rollicking, teasing edge she was coming to know so well. “I’ll make a deal with you.”
“What kind of a deal?” India asked warily.
“I’ll dive for your boots, if you agree that when we get down to the beach, you’ll take off that damned wet skirt and blouse.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
She was no longer making even a pretense of not looking at him. Slack-jawed and wide-eyed, she stared at him, at the long, lean, gloriously naked length of him, and felt her heart begin to beat so hard and fast she was practically shaking.
“You can leave on your underthings, if you insist,” he was saying. “They’ll dry soon enough. But everything else has to go.”
“But . . . why?” Her voice ended in a pleading wail.
“Because,” he said, walking up to her, “that damned skirt will never dry otherwise. Because it’s more dangerous than you seem to realize, wearing wet clothes in this climate.” He was so close to her now that his hard, naked thighs were pressed against hers and his warm breath caressed her cheek as he leaned into her. “And because you can’t write anything meaningful about the South Pacific when you’ve never known the warm touch of a tropical breeze against your bare skin.”
She shook her head slowly from side to side. Every nerve in her body was quiveringly, achingly aware of his nearness, of the heat of his naked body and the dangerous, unwanted, inexplicable power of the undeniable attraction between them. “No.”
Dark, wicked amusement sparkled in the depths of his impossibly blue eyes. “It’s a risky thing, you know, walking along the beach without shoes. A coral cut can take years to heal. And if you step on a stone fish . . .” He shrugged.
India swallowed, hard. “This is blackmail. Extortion.”
A nasty smile curled his lips. “Yes.”
She watched the water drip from his dark, wet hair to trickle down the golden flesh of his cheeks and throat. She felt his bare chest lift against hers as he drew in a deep breath of air, felt her senses reel as she, in turn, breathed in the hot, heady scent of him. She saw his eyes narrow, his lips soften. And in that moment, she would have done almost anything, said anything to break the unbearable tension of the moment and put some distance between them.
Besides, she needed those boots.
“All right,” she said, her hands coming up to flatten against his bare chest, her head nodding once in curt agreement as she pushed him away from her. “It’s a deal.”
It was a good thing it wasn’t far to the beach, Jack decided as he watched India McKnight limp down the path ahead of him, her boots making light squishing sounds, the wet, heavy wool of her split skirt rubbing audibly with every step she took.
She had insisted on walking ahead of him as soon as she found out he had no intention of struggling back into his own soaked shirt and trousers. But then, a man would have to be a fool to subject his body to the kind of discomfort she was undergoing. He supposed her maidenly modesty recoiled at the thought of walking behind a naked man and being forced to stare without respite at his bare ass. But he wondered if she might not have found it the lesser of two evils if she’d realized the explicitly carnal nature of the thoughts running through his head as he watched her.
She might not be naked, but without the rigid shield of whalebone once provided by her corset, her wet blouse and chemise clung to her in a way that revealed every natural swell and hollow. And the natural curves of Miss India McKnight’s body were mighty fine indeed, her breasts full and rounded and firm, her stomach flat, her legs strong from years spent trekking through the jungles and deserts of the world.
She was not at all the type of woman he normally found himself attracted to. He kept telling himself that. Oh, she was strong and gutsy, with a quick mind and a wry, dry sense of humor that he couldn’t help but like and admire. But she was too out of touch with the woman she was born to be, too tied up in all sorts of knots by her attempts to conform to the image she’d created for herself of a proper but determinedly single Scotswoman, upright and asexual and unassailable.
And yet . . . There was the interesting matter of that scientific experiment she’d once conducted to discern for herself exactly what she was missing by eschewing the marital act. Then there was that kiss.
Every time he thought about that kiss, he felt his blood surge, his chest lift on a ragged breath. It had been wine and honey, that kiss, sweet and hot and so damned overwhelmingly erotic that it haunted his every step. He watched her pause ahead of him, her head turning, a quiet smile lifting the edges of her lips as she watched the sun sparkle golden and brilliant on the outstretched wings of a white-breasted sea eagle, and he wanted . . .
He wanted to lay her down on the soft sand of a secluded beach, with the whisper of the surf beside them and the wind warm and gentle in the palm trees above. He wanted to strip away what was left of her confining, oh-so-proper European clothes and let the sun dance golden and free over all the secret, hidden places of her body. The smooth flesh of her beautiful breasts would be white, almost translucent, he thought, her thighs long and lean and strong. He wanted to touch her, to taste her there, and there . . . everywhere. And the image of it, the savage heat of that wanting was so intense, so powerful, that he shuddered with it.
“Thank God,” he heard her say, and he realized suddenly that the path beneath their feet had turned to sand. Looking up, he saw the limpid turquoise of the lagoon, visible through the screen of ferns and broad-leafed shrubs that grew thick beneath the overarching palms.
Cool and sweet, the sea breeze wafted over them. She paused at the edge of the rain forest, her head falling back as she drew the fresh, salt-tinged air deep into her lungs. She had her eyes closed, her neck arching invitingly. And it occurred to him, as he watched her lips part, her breasts lift with her breathing, that maybe it had been a mistake to make her agree to take off her clothes.
Chapter Seventeen
JACK SPREAD HIS clothes to dry on the bleached white branches of an old driftwood log half buried in the sand. The sun was a giant orange ball hovering just above the misty line where water met sky, and he moved quickly to gather dried coconut fronds and pieces of driftwood, and build up a fire before the rapid descent of darkness.
Kneeling in the sand with India McKnight’s waterproof match tin in his hands, he glanced up to find her staring out over the gold-washed, gently lapping waters of the lagoon, to where the surf beat in thundering, white-spray savagery against the offshore reef. She might have her back to him, but the taut line of her shoulders and spine told him that she was as aware as he of all the subtle nuances of the night to come.
That kiss had changed everything between them. Oh, the attraction had been there before, there was no denying that, for all they’d both worked so hard to suppress it, to disallow its very existence. But the raw, naked power of that one moment had stripped away all the pretenses, all the unconscious subterfuges thrown up by their instinctive rivalry and petty bickering. Now sexual awareness crackled in the very air between them, underlay every movement, every word.
“We had a deal, remember?” he said softly, and smiled when she spun to face him, her eyes widening with what looked very much like panic. He’d seen her deal with hungry cannibals and rotting bridges and sinking banana-stem rafts, but the thought of being reduced to nothing more than her chemise and pantalets had her in a gut-terror.
She hugged her arms across her chest and gave a little shiver, as if she were cold, when he knew damned well she wasn’t. “I’m waiting until you get the fire going.”
He grunted, his attention all seemingly for the task of coaxing his small flame to flare up hot and bright and spitting. “
The sun might be setting, but it’s still hot. You’re just stalling. Besides . . .” He sat back on his heels and reached to tuck the matches into her knapsack. “The fire’s going.”
She swallowed hard, the muscles in her slim white throat bunching and flexing. She waved one hand through the air in a vague, conjuring gesture. “Shouldn’t you go . . . catch some fish, or something?”
“After you get out of those wet clothes.” Jack stood up, his hands dangling loosely beside his naked thighs. Her gaze snapped away to some indefinable point over his left shoulder, but not before he knew what she’d been looking at. He had to try really, really hard not to smile. “Need some help?”
Her gaze wavered back to meet his, her breath coming short and fast, her lips parting in that way that made him think of what it would be like to touch her mouth, gently, with his fingertips. What that mouth would feel like, hot, wet, on him. And then he wondered what she must have seen in his face, because she said, “Turn around.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Turn around.”
“If you think I’m going to keep my back to you all night—”
“Obviously not. But I can’t undress with you watching me like this. Turn around.”
He turned around. The setting sun drenched the sand with a rich golden light that picked out the vivid yellow flowers of the red beech and the golden orchids that grew in breathtaking masses at the edge of the rain forest. He felt the evening breeze skim across his bare skin, heard the rustle of the gently swaying fronds of the palms. Someplace in the distance, a curlew cried, its call low and haunting.
“If you don’t hurry, you’re going to be gathering coconuts by moonlight,” he said.
Her only answer was a swish of sand. Then she said, “There,” and he swung slowly around.
The lagoon had turned into a rose-tinged sheet of undulating silver reflecting a pink-washed sky against which the black silhouettes of the palms shifted back and forth in a slow, seductive dance. She stood with her head held high, a defiant challenge in her eyes. Her long, chestnut-shot dark hair was loose and half-dry, and billowed enticingly about her shoulders. But the fine cloth of her chemise and pantalets still clung, damp and revealing, to every swell, every curve of the body beneath.
Beyond Sunrise Page 14
