Shipwrecked with Mr Wrong. Nikki Logan
no doubt.
He shifted his weight and stretched out a crick in that broad back and Honor wondered if she’d ever feel the same about her view again—or her island.
She frowned. Where had that come from? Not her brain, certainly. One man spending five minutes on Pulu Keeling was not going to undo the wonder and beauty of her safe haven for ever. It was the disturbance. It had thrown her normal rhythm.
She watched him soak up the view, his hands on his hips, body not quite relaxed. For a man who looked as if he was born in the surf, he didn’t seem particularly comfortable standing in front of one of the most beautiful beaches on the planet.
What’s he waiting for—a bellhop?
Her lips tightened. ‘Well, come on in.’
He swung around and moved out of the deep shade into the dappled light of her campsite, sliding his sunglasses up onto his damp dark hair. Honor’s heart tripped over itself, and she glanced away lest she be caught staring.
His eyes were the same vivid blue as her view.
She scurried towards her tent, willing the heart that had lurched into a frantic flutter to settle. Had everything shrunk the moment he stepped into camp? She grabbed a long-sleeved cotton shirt and hastily slipped it on over her swimsuit.
‘Eight months …’ she heard him mutter.
Her chin lifted. ‘How long do you think it will take you to make repairs?’ The question was ruder than she’d intended. It practically screamed, Get off my island!
He didn’t miss the tone; his lips thinned and those amazing eyes darkened. ‘No idea. I’ll have to assess the damage.’
‘What can I do to help?’ She’d meant it to be conciliatory.
‘In a hurry to have me gone, Honor?’
Shame bit as those all-knowing eyes saw exactly which way her mind was going. ‘No. It’s just … I’m not set up for visitors.’ It was true, yet not entirely the truth.
‘I’ll do my best to stay out of your way.’ His nostrils flared briefly.
Robert Dalton had a decent poker face, an admirable life skill. The aggravated pulse high in his jaw was the only other sign that she’d ticked him off. Her own face was an open book.
‘It’s okay.’ She reached for her trusty logbook. ‘I have work to do, anyway. Make yourself at home.’
It half killed her to say it.
His smile couldn’t have been less genuine. Was it so unthinkable that a person could feel at home in her little base? Even a person whose sunglasses probably cost more than her whole camp set-up? Not waiting for his answer, she snatched up her binoculars and marched towards the trees.
Rob watched her go and then looked around again. Making himself at home felt plain wrong. This camp, with its sweet little homely touches, was so private and feminine. He felt every bit the intruder. He sighed and headed back to the beach, peeling his adhesive T-shirt from his body as he went and looking around for a sun-bleached bush to drape it on. He turned back out to the horizon and waded into the water, heading for the boat that he’d bought with the first money he’d ever earned himself.
Minutes later, under the full glare of the equatorial sun, he yanked his dive mask down harder than necessary and snapped it into place, then readied himself on the edge of The Player.
What’s her problem, anyway? His just being here obviously irritated the heck out of her. Everything he did she took exception to and he’d been here all of one hour. That had to be some kind of record. Not that she’d been entirely rude. She’d been a sport about hauling all his gear onshore, and she’d tried to make nice towards the end.
Although it obviously didn’t come as second nature to her.
Rob smiled. Honor Brier certainly was different to the women he knew. They liked having him around, they even sought him out. Actively. He wasn’t used to feeling plain unwelcome or to a woman being so … transparent and open. Honor had no interest in playing up to him or in putting on an act. She wanted him gone and was being perfectly upfront about it. It made a refreshing change from the gratuitous fawning he endured back home. Not to say it didn’t sting a bit, this feeling of not being quite good enough. But it was undeniably honest.
And unexpectedly welcome.
Robert Dalton Senior would have bawled him out for an hour for valuing character over charisma. His father’s idea of the perfect relationship was one in which everyone revolved around him like planets orbiting a star. And God knew he’d tried to raise his son in his image.
With a well-practised manoeuvre, Rob dropped over the boat’s side, diving once again into the cold waters of the Cocos Trench. Seven and a half thousand metres at its deepest point and here was he, nothing more than an amoeba splashing around right at its highest. Where the ocean bottom broke the surface and became land. This century, anyway. The shoreline on remote islands was as changeable as their sovereignty. Two hundred years belonging to Ceylon. One hundred as Britain’s. Fifty as Australia’s. Next century maybe Indonesia would get its turn. If there was anything left to claim sovereignty over. Cocos and everything on it would be underwater with his shipwrecks the way the sea levels were heading. Nothing was for ever.
Isn’t that the truth.
Rob shook his head. The earth had a way of giving back to itself. Ore ripped deep from its guts became metal. Metal became a ship. A ship became a shipwreck. A wreck became reef and a reef eventually compounded and silted up to become earth again. Oceans rose and retreated, froze over and defrosted and finally retreated enough to push the island-that-once-was-reef-that-once-was-a-shipwreck up above the surface where who knew what life would evolve on it.
His life—with all its dramas—took place in ultra fast-forward by comparison and had no bearing whatsoever on what the rest of the planet did. That thought had a way of keeping a guy humble. Keeping a guy from being too much like his father.
Despite that father’s best efforts.
The water kissed his bare skin as he sank below to assess the damage. The sun had shifted to the other side of the boat slightly, changing the light and making the fracture easier to see. He ran his hand over the hairline crack in the hull, got a feel for the injury. Angry bubbles raced him to the surface. He’d need an oxy-welder and he knew without looking that there wasn’t one amongst the mountain of equipment he’d brought on this short voyage. And he was pretty sure it wasn’t something a pretty female hermit generally kept handy.
He surfaced and climbed back into the boat, his heart heavy. The Player hadn’t taken on water yet—as far as he could see—but, given time and the relentless pounding of the ocean, that could change. It was too risky to take her back out to sea without repairs, even heading for Cocos’ Home Island. He’d have to wait for equipment or a ship to shepherd him back to dry port. Ideally, both.
Looks like this field trip just got extended.
Honor had to have a radio in camp. He hoped he could use it to contact the maritime authority to communicate his predicament.
Anger at his own stupidity made him careless as he swam back to shore, and he rushed his first attempt at boosting onto the reef. Sharp coral shards lacerated his exposed belly in several places. He fell back into the deep water of the drop-off, waited for the swell and used nature’s hoist to push himself onto the reef. The mix of saltwater and fresh air stung like crazy in the welts already forming on his stomach but he’d endured worse.
Not as bad as Honor, his mind reminded him as he dived into the calmer lagoon and stroked carefully across, tugging on the fresh wounds with each muscle flex. Her scars. He was no expert, but the damage didn’t look like burn marks. The skin wasn’t puckered enough. It was more like … patchwork. As if someone had done some kind of Frankenstein number on her.
He frowned. That wasn’t