Nobody's Child. Ann Major
headway against the wind and the waves. He heard the crashing surf and knew he was too close to shore. The electricity on the island had gone out, and without lights to guide him, without the motor, he’d never make the channel to the island’s man-made harbor.
He had to restart the motor. But as he leaned over the stern, a large wave slammed into the boat, foaming into the cockpit. When Jolly Girl lurched violently, Cutter lost his footing and slid overboard. As the cold rushing water swallowed him, he fought to reach the surface.
One gurgling breath. Then he gulped water as another wave crashed over him and dragged him under.
He clawed his way through the darkness to the surface again.
This time he didn’t quite make it and gulped salt water instead.
As he sank, he heard the taunt of her husky purr.
Mr. Lord, you can’t stop me. I’m the gold digger girl.
She was laughing at him as he kicked against the undertow that sucked him down, down, ever deeper into a cold, wet hell.
A feeble sun broke through the gray, making the calmer waters glimmer like polished silver.
Waves curled around a man’s bare foot.
Freezing. Hungry. Cold
Freezing. Hungry. Cold.
Again and again like the feeble tattoo of a drum, the words fluttered through Cutter’s tired brain.
Cutter was barely conscious. His skin was pale, his lips blue. His shoes and most of his clothes had been torn off. Grit and sand filled his wet black hair, nostrils and ears. Every time he tried to swallow, his throat burned.
He had lost all sensation in his legs and arms and fingers and toes.
Where the hell was he?
Who cared? He was so cold, he just wanted to sleep.
Forever.
Then he heard a husky cry that was somehow familiar.
“Oh, my God—” A woman’s terrified voice.
With great effort he opened his eyes and saw the upturned hull of Jolly Girl.
But he wasn’t looking at the wreck. A breeze whipped a gauzy, white skirt high up a pair of shapely legs.
A woman.
Cheyenne Rose.
The troublesome witch blurred in a red haze of pain as if she were no more than the figment of a nightmare.
He forced his heavy burning eyes open again.
She wasn’t what he had expected.
She was slim and lovely—as lovely as her voice. She had a sweet face. An enormous, white gardenia bloomed in her hair.
He shivered violently, not wanting to like her.
What the hell was the matter with him? Was he delirious? Dying?
It didn’t mean a damn that she was pretty. Or soft and vulnerable looking.
She was the enemy.
But it did...mean a damn. He felt something deep and hot and eternal grip his heart.
As if she were a child clutching a treasure, she held a bag of shells in one hand as she stretched on tiptoes to examine the wrecked hull.
Her long red hair blew around her face and neck. She was dressed in a white sundress. A silver light came from behind her and lit her hair like spun flame. There was something fragile and otherworldly and enchantingly angelic about her. He noticed that behind her the sand dunes were ablaze with Fiddleleaf morning glories and yellow sunflowers as if it were summer.
What kind of woman came to an island and stayed there through a violent storm and then got up the next morning to hunt seashells?
She had fine, delicate features with high cheekbones and the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. Her breasts and hips were deliciously rounded; her waist small. Her skin was pale gold, and as she stared at the boat and him with wonder and fear, he realized that she was not only smolderingly sensual but irresistibly innocent.
He groaned as a sudden pain convulsed in his chest.
Startled by his cry, she screamed and jumped back. Her wary green eyes studied him. Then her incandescent smile dazzled him.
He shut his eyes.
She hesitated a brief moment before racing toward him.
Conserving the last of his strength, he lay very still.
Until she reached him.
“Hello?” Her husky voice grew more anxious. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
She was an enemy to whom he should show no mercy. In answer to her greeting, his large brown hand snaked around her slender ankle and yanked hard.
Her shells flew, scattering on the sand. With a muffled cry, she toppled onto him.
He gasped with pain from her weight across his chest. Then he rolled over, so that his body crushed her.
His black, gritty hair dripped sand all over her pretty, pale gold face. All over her small, freckled nose.
His intention was to terrify her.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” she said and then she sneezed and dusted sand from her nose. “Sorry...”
He said, “Bless you.”
He noticed how warm she was. It was as if she’d brought summer with her.
He felt dizzy. Then he pitched forward. For a second, before he fainted, he felt the warm cushion of her breasts and the silken touch of her fingers gently stroking his hair.
When the blackness receded, he was wrapped in thick blankets. She had made a fire from driftwood and was bending over him and smiling anxiously. “Do you think you could drink some hot coffee?” she urged. “Then maybe in a minute, if you could try to walk, and I think you can...because I examined you...while you were unconscious, we could get you into the house. I’ve built a fire inside, too, and I’m sure by now it’s warm there.”
He smiled warily, teeth chattering, as she poured the coffee and lifted his head and brought the plastic mug to his trembling lips.
He sipped obediently.
When he was done, she said softly, sweetly, “Oh, good. Please, don’t be afraid. You’re hurt. And I want to help you. We have to get you out of your wet clothes. What’s left of them, anyway...”
Their eyes met again. She blushed shyly, her skin glowing like an angel’s.
He drank more coffee, the whole thermosful, and the warmth of the liquid filled him—or was it just the radiance of her smile that made winter change to summer?
He had never met anybody like her.
She was putting her arms around him and struggling to help him sit up when her sweet face blurred around the edges as once more he dissolved into a dizzying blackness.
His last pleading words to her were, “Don’t leave me.”
Cutter had never spent so much time lying down, being waited on and pampered. He had never wanted to.
For three days he had dwelt in a room scented heavily with gardenias and other summer flowers while Miss Rose had nursed him.
And he had relished every minute.
His enemy.
But, oh, how he had loved her coming to his bedroom to tend him with her gentle hands and her kind voice.
More than loved it. In his weakened state he had longed for it. Pined for the wild gardenia scent of her.
And every