Deception Island. Brynn Kelly
leaving just her underwear, transparent from sweat. Lucky he only had her back to contend with.
“Stone fish,” he corrected, numbly. Oh yeah, he could do with a whole lot of cold water right now.
She walked in ahead of him, her curves swaying against the pull of the water, then dived, her round derrière popping up for an instant before it disappeared. He strode in up to his chest, before she could surface and see the effect she was having on his body. The run had charged him up, that was all—and one part of him in particular was refusing to forget their encounter on the cliff. He prided himself on professionalism, so what in hell was going on there?
She broke the clear film of water and stood, facing him. She might as well not be wearing a bra. He could use more of that cola, but no way could he get out now. She splashed him. “Loosen up, Capitaine.”
“You’re supposed to be afraid of me.”
She splashed him again. He half expected the water to sizzle as it hit his body. “Is that in the pirate rule book?” She stroked lazily past him, the water skimming her back, her hips, her ass, her legs. “Look, it’s obvious that for some reason you’re as happy to be here as I am. This battle isn’t between the two of us, is it? So relax.”
So that was it. She wasn’t afraid because she was waiting—expecting—to be bailed out. Was that what life with money and power was like—Daddy would bail you out of any situation, even a kidnapping? That accounted for her nonchalance, if not the other intriguing questions he wanted answers to. Okay, mademoiselle, I’ll play along. He splashed her back and she grinned, her eyes gleaming as blue as the water.
He dived, the cool hit a tonic for his edginess. As he surfaced his lip stung where she’d bitten it. He touched it. No more blood. It’d been torture to ram his body against hers for so long, to press his lips to hers, having already wondered what that would feel like.
“I gave you a pretty good fat lip,” she said, twisting and sliding around him like a seal. “I’d say sorry, but it’s kinda part of the deal.”
He shrugged. “It was a smart move.”
“It didn’t work.”
“Of course it didn’t.”
“Race you to the jetty.”
She duck-dived and pulled away with the same languid strokes he’d watched that morning. He was surprised she still had energy for it. He powered through the silky water. As he neared, she upped her stroke rate. He matched it, and put on a surge of his own, glad to stretch a different set of muscles. Tension dissolved from his chest for the first time in days. They sure looked like a couple of carefree newlyweds.
They reached the end of the jetty together. “Check out the fish,” she gasped, treading water.
A school of angel fish flitted under their feet, with parrot fish circling farther down. The water was clear as vodka right to the grains of sand far below, a break in the coral that bloomed and swayed around them. Yep, it was goddamn beautiful. She was goddamn beautiful.
“Oh, look!” She touched his shoulder. “Turtle!”
He dived out of her reach, eyes stinging against the salty water, and surfaced several meters away. Turtles. Theo was crazy about turtles.
And Rafe was just plain crazy. This was crazy. Tu agis sans passion. What the hell kind of game was he playing? He needed time out—from her.
“Do you think there’s snorkel gear?” she said. “I’ve love a closer look.”
“You know this isn’t really a honeymoon?”
“Are you always this dour?”
“I’m heading in. I need to eat.” And get my head straight.
“I’ll stay out for a bit. Save some for me, honey.”
* * *
Damn. She’d struck out.
Holly starfished in the water, eyes closed against the high sun, her body rising and falling with the lagoon’s gentle swell. If only the movement would unknot her stomach. Just when she thought she was gaining ground, he’d pulled away.
Where could she get some of his self-control? Even in the water her body throbbed, from the run, and from the shock of feeling nearly every muscle in his body taut against her—and he seemed to have more muscles than regular people. She sure was screwed if she got charged up at an encounter like that. Normal people didn’t react like that, did they?
Normal. Whatever that was. He’d been married to a “normal” woman, was possibly still not over her. Maybe Holly just couldn’t compete with normal.
She swam for another twenty minutes, to collect herself and for the sheer chest-bursting liberty of it, then breaststroked to shore, her stomach still swirling.
Under a tree on the clipped lawn, he’d set the picnic table with the kind of food she’d forgotten existed. He sat on the bench seat with his back to the table, facing the ocean, wearing shorts and a deep blue T-shirt, one leg folded across the other. Wet clothes hung from a rope he’d strung up between two palm trees. He’d done laundry?
After a cursory glance her way, he reached for a towel that was draped over the seat, and tossed it to her. She took the hint, and wrapped it around her torso. Crap, her underwear didn’t leave much to the imagination. She hadn’t meant to be that obvious. Maybe she’d pushed it too far, too soon. They had a few days on the island, he’d said. A few days to take his defenses from rock to Play-Doh.
If the ransom was paid, she could go on her way without him being any wiser to her deception. If not, she wanted him on her side when the shit went down. Maybe then, she could come clean. In the meantime she was safer to play princess and hope for the best.
“You shouldn’t have,” she said, shoving her hair into what she hoped was a sleek style.
“You were right,” he said, raising a glass of juice. “We may as well make the most of a bad situation. Cheers.”
She poured herself a juice and sat at the other end of the bench. Hmm. Just what did he mean by that? A bird plummeted into the water, a flash of orange and electric blue.
“Salute,” she said. “Or is it santé?” High school French hadn’t covered drinking etiquette.
He cocked his head, frowning.
“You speak French when you’re surprised. Or turned on.” She swiveled to focus on the food as heat rose up her face. What was that about? She never blushed, especially when she was on the job. Had to be the air temperature. “Are you French?”
“Uh.” He uncrossed and crossed his legs.
Stifling a triumphant smile, she began to assemble a sandwich—ham, lettuce, tomato, olives. Anything basic and relatively fresh made her drool like a mastiff after prison food.
“Are you French, Jack? I can’t pick your accent. And I swear your English is better than mine.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple rising and dipping. “I’m a lot of things, and nothing. If I was a dog, I’d be a stray mongrel.”
Just like her. “Guess that makes me a prize Chihuahua.”
The bench shook with his laughter, deep and throaty, and only half-bitter. It did gooey things to her stomach. Man, that was so wrong.
“Pampered but scrappy as hell,” he said.
“That’s me.” Half the truth, at least.
“Your foot—it’s bleeding.”
“Really?” Blood trailed from the arch of her foot, mixing with water and grains of sand. “It’s nothing. You should have seen what I did to the shark.”
He raised one eyebrow.
“I cut myself on the coral. No big deal.”