Running Wild (13 page)

“Let’s get you into the boat.”

“Good plan,” she said fervently and let him sidestroke the two of them over to where the dory gently bobbed on its anchor.

He looked down at her when they reached the boat, tipping his chin in to see her face where she’d half tucked it into the crook of his neck. Her eyes were at half-mast. “Can you hang on to the gunwale for a second? It’ll probably be easier to haul you in from the boat than try to lift you into it from the water.”

“’Kay.” But for several seconds, she maintained her loose grip on his neck, her head resting heavily on his shoulder. Then, blowing out a long, quiet breath that Finn felt cool on contact with the river water stippling his skin, she transferred her grip, one hand at a time, from him to the edge of the boat.

He ducked out from under her, watched for a moment to make sure she hung on, then after he firmly commanded, “Don’t move,” he dived beneath the dory. He came up on the other side and hauled himself into the boat, then immediately knee-walked to her side. “You still good?”

“As can be expected,” she agreed with a weary nod.

That was probably as much reassurance as he was going to get, so, bracing his knees against the boat’s interior lapstrake siding, Finn sat back on his heels on the boat’s deck. Then, carefully distributing his weight, he reached for Mags, sliding his hands beneath her smooth armpits. He settled the heels of his hands and his palms against the sides of her breasts, his thumbs anchored in front where the ball socket of her shoulders met her outer chest, his fingers curving around her back in a firm grip. Tightening his core for stability, he lifted her into the dory.

The instant he set her loose, she collapsed to sit on the floor between the back and middle seats. Leaning her back against the side of the middle one, she pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her shins, her body bending around that damn anchor of a purse. She bowed her head and pressed her forehead against her kneecaps.

Finn watched her back lift and fall with her every breath. Her hair was a sleek cap that clung to her skull before separating into dozens of soaked strands that stuck to her face and fanned across her shoulders, her breasts, her back.

Water dribbled down her torso. Some of the river water ran pink when it crossed her various scrapes, several of which oozed tiny droplets of blood. He started the motor. “Let’s go over to that beach and take a look at you.”

She merely nodded without lifting her head and he turned the boat and headed for land. Moments later, its bottom scraped shore and Finn stepped over both Mags and the seat she leaned against. He got out and turned to drag the dory’s bow farther up the sand. After burying the anchor up the beach, he went back to collect his pack and assist her onto solid ground.

“Will you be okay for a second if I go set up the tent?” He didn’t know if she’d need to lie down or not, but sand wasn’t the best place for someone with open scrapes.

She nodded and he grabbed the backpack from the boat and in minutes had the tent set up and a towel-covered sleeping bag for her to lie on.

When he turned back to her it was to see her sitting cross-legged on the hot sand, her big bag cradled in her lap. She was pale, her clothing soaked, her pretty skin marked up from the rocks she’d encountered in her wild tumble through the rapids, and sudden fury exploded in his gut.

He tried to repudiate his feelings as he dug his first-aid kit out of his backpack. Hey, he couldn’t be mad at her for failing to don her life vest when he’d told her—twice!—to do so, because God knew she’d already paid a steep enough price for it. So he laid the blame on her bag. That fucking monster of a bag that only by the grace of God hadn’t dragged her down to a watery grave.

He leaned down, plucked it out of her lap and flung it as far as he could into the river.

“What the hell!” She leaped to her feet. “Go get that!”

“No! The damn thing nearly killed you!”

“You
shit
! Go get it!”

He crossed his arms over his chest.

She ran to the water’s edge, waded to her thighs, then dived in, her gaze locked on where the bag was half-submerged but still floating as it moved lazily away from her in the light current. Then she set off swimming.

Finn swore and went after her. She was clearly exhausted and he caught up with her in about three strokes. When he tried to pull her to him, however, she snarled, “Get your hands off me!” and kicked out with her feet, catching him high on the thigh, way too close to his junk for comfort.

Swearing under his breath, he scooped a hand under her stomach, slapped the other on her butt and sent her sailing through the water toward shore.

“Go back,” he said. “I’ll get it.”

“I don’t trust you,” she said flatly, treading water and glaring at him through spiky, water-spangled eyelashes.

He was surprised how much it hurt to hear her say that, but he supposed he’d earned it.

Hell, he’d tried to deep-six the queen’s share of her belongings, including, most likely, her passport. Clearly, he hadn’t been using his head. “You have my word,” he said quietly. “I’ll get it.” And he took off with strong strokes toward the big tote.

When he swam back with it a short while later, he found her still standing, calf-deep, in the shallows. He handed her the purse and watched as she hugged it to her stomach without looking at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said to her stiff back as she turned it on him and waded ashore, then followed as she strode up to the rough grass that bordered the sand at the top of the beach.

She squatted and began pulling items out of her soaked purse one by one and settling them carefully atop the grass to dry.

He touched her shoulder, but she shrugged off his fingers and he blew out a frustrated breath. “Look, I really am sorry. I thought for sure that was going to be the weight that sank you, but I realize now that I was reacting to the whole having-you-missing thing and the much-too-close call you had by turning all my fear into anger and transferring it on to your stupid bag.” There. That sounded new age sensitive and enlightened, right?

Even if he had a sneaking suspicion he spoke nothing short of the truth.

She continued the silent treatment as she set the rest of her things out to dry. But out of the blue as she tried to pat her big makeup case dry with her hands, she muttered, “Not all of us have a secure job in the heart of a family business—or have a family at all, for that matter.”

He dropped to his knees behind her, his hands reaching for her before he forced himself to drop them to his sides. “I know.”

“Do you?” she demanded wearily, turning to face him. “I don’t think you have the first idea.” She gestured at the bag now limply bleeding dye into the sand. “Every cent I own was in that—I cleaned out my bank account to come down here. I did leave my main makeup kit in my apartment, but I brought enough of the good stuff along that it could make a difference in getting a good job if something comes up, because I can’t afford to replace it.”

Okay, he was going to get slaughtered for asking, but... “Why do you need all of that?” He looked at her washed-clean face. “You don’t even wear that much makeup.”

“It’s my livelihood!”

“Oh, sure, I guess you told me that. For your street performance stuff.”

“Well, that, too, of course. But my real skill is as an actual almost-up-and-coming makeup artist.”

Knowing better than to smile at the almost-up-and-coming part, he said, “Yeah? Like in the movies or something?”

“Almost.” She shrugged. “I got my first big break when a huge sci-fi production I worked all
year
to get on actually hired me. Then I had to tell them I couldn’t take it when Mom and Dad went missing.”

He thought this might be the first time he’d heard her call her parents
Mom and Dad
, but he bit his tongue and didn’t remark on that, either.

See? He was teachable. “I’m sorry. That must have been rough.”

“You have no idea. I could have given up the street performing.”

“You don’t like it?” That surprised him. “You’re so good at it.”

“It’s fun to do, occasionally.” She shrugged. “But I never know what I might rake in and that makes my income killer undependable.”

Her hair was starting to dry in crazy strands and he reached out to brush them out of her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said and almost winced. He’d said it so much in the past several minutes, it had likely lost its impact.

Yet he truly was. She was right—he’d always had the safety net of Kavanagh Construction. He worked hard at his job, but he also took his financial security for granted. Absentmindedly, he finger-combed her hair into a fat ponytail that he gathered in one fist. “Seriously,” he said, gazing down into her blue eyes. “I am honest-to-God sorry. I was a douche to throw your purse in the river.”

Her eyes brimmed with sudden tears. “I was so scared, Finn,” she whispered. “So, so scared. You’re not the only one who thought I might drown. A couple of times there when I was bouncing off the bottom of the riverbed, I was pretty sure I’d used up all my luck.”

“But you didn’t,” he said in a low, firm voice, knee-walking closer until they were nearly body-to-body. “You made it—you’re a survivor.” He bent his head and pressed a kiss on her forehead. Raised his head and looked down at her, then kissed both of her eyelids. “You’re safe now.” He slid his mouth down her cheek and kissed her lips.

And they both froze, staring at one another. Then Mags swore softly.

And, pushing him over onto his back, she dived atop him.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

H
EART
BEATING
LIKE
the wings of a trapped bird, Mags straddled Finn, her knees and shins hitting the sand on either side of his thighs, her hands bracketing his shoulders. The feel of hot granules invading her various scrapes and cuts, however, had her promptly sucking in a sharp breath through her teeth.

Finn jackknifed upright, one big hand clamped spread-fingered against the small of her back to keep her pressed against him as he sat up. “Straighten your legs,” he said in a gravelly voice.

She gingerly adjusted them before loosely crossing her ankles behind his back. When she settled on his lap, the rigidity of how happy he was to see her met the crotch seam of her cargo shorts.

Right back atcha, big guy
, she thought and, tipping her head, caught his earlobe between her teeth and gave it a little suck.

He shivered, but pulled her gently back on his thighs until her tingly bits lost contact with the source of all that pleasure.

“Hey,” she said, looking down at him. She attempted to squirm back into position, but his hands on her hips easily kept her away from the goodies. “What are you doing?”

“We need to take a short intermission to clean up your scrapes.”

“Oh,
hell
, no,” she protested. “They can wait.” Her nipples, harder than diamonds, throbbed right along with the heartbeat between her legs. She’d always believed the lion’s share of her past sexual encounters had been pretty darn good—well, once she’d smartened up and became selective. But she couldn’t recall feeling quite so out-of-control
needy
as she did at this moment.

One thing she did know with complete certainty: she had no time for doctoring. Reaching back, she gripped his legs just above the knees. Her move made him relax his grasp and, sliding back into place, she used the leverage she’d gained from bracing herself to rock her hips, desultorily stropping herself against the hard length of his sex.

He hissed in a breath, lifted his hips to press into her slow up-and-down slide, then secured her hips in his hands again and held her still. “No,” he said with obvious regret, “they can’t wait. You grew up here, you know how the tropics can take a simple cut and turn it into a festering mess in no time flat if it’s left unattended.”

She did know that, but at the moment she simply didn’t care. She was itchy and restless and just... “I need to feel
alive
,” she said, moving as best she could against his erection. “C’mon, Finn. You can play medic later. Right now I need you to fuck me.”

Whoa, Nellie—seriously?
Hearing that emerge from her mouth in its carnal context yanked her out of the moment. She freely admitted she was a bit of a split personality when it came to cursing.
Mags
could swear with the best of them, but in truth, prissy Miss Magdalene held the reins more often than not as far as language went. As Finn said, early training was hard to shake.

But, dammit, fucking was exactly what she wanted right now.

No. Who was she kidding?
Wanted
was too pallid a word for the way she felt.

She needed it more than she needed her next breath. There had been too many horrific moments in those pounding rapids when she’d truly believed she was going down and staying down for the count. So right now she needed to celebrate the fact that while she’d been terrified out of her mind, it hadn’t freaking
ended
her. And, face it, sex was probably the most fundamental life-affirming act of all.

“First aid, first,” Finn said sternly. “Then I’ll make you feel so alive you’ll beg for mercy.”

“Pffft.” She put all the skepticism at her command into the sound. Then said, “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll let you tend me if you take off a piece of clothing for every scrape or cut you fix up.”

“I’ll take off a piece for every
third
bit of doctoring
if
you behave—no teasing—while I get the job done.”

She shifted restlessly. “Oh, God, Finn, I don’t know if I can sit still that long.” Straightening in his lap, she spread her hands over her breasts, pressing them toward the wall of her chest and massaging them. Her head dropped back. “I’m just...so...dang...
hot
.”

“Sweet mother Mary,” he muttered in a rough half whisper and rose to his feet as if he didn’t have a hundred-and-thirty-pound woman atop him.

She emitted an embarrassingly girlish squeak and wrapped her arms and legs around him like a squirrel monkey around a canopy tree vine.

He strode over to the tent and set her down carefully outside the vestibule. “Brush off the sand and then get inside. I’m going to heat some water real quick. My first-aid kit is on the sleeping bag. Grab out the triple antibiotic and a handful of bandages, and I’ll be right back.”

Squeezing her thighs together to assuage the heavy pulse thumping between her legs, she pulled off her tank top, shook it out, then used it to carefully brush her arms and legs as free of sand as she could get them. Some of her abrasions had suffered more skin loss than others and the sand in those would need to be rinsed out. But for now she shook out her top again and arranged the garment over the top of the tent to dry. Then she stripped off her nylon cargo shorts and spread them atop the tent as well, although they were already close to dry.

Finally, clad only in a damp mocha-colored lace bra and matching panties, she brushed her hands together to rid them of the sand still stubbornly clinging to them and bent to enter the tent.

Had she been able to stand upright she would have paced within its confines. Denied the option, she sank to sit cross-legged on the floor next to the bag to avoid leaving faint butt prints on the latter from her not totally dry undies.

At first she was so twitchy she could barely breathe and restlessly she butterflied her knees up and down as she pulled out the first-aid supplies. But little by little, with nothing to fuel this mad out-of-control urgency for wild monkey sex, the sensation started to fade.

She pulled her legs in close to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, lowering her forehead to press against her kneecaps.
Dear God
. What had she been thinking? She’d always liked sex, but she could say with complete honesty that she’d never burned from the inside out to jump all over a guy the way she just had with Finn. She believed in keeping things easy breezy, not getting all intense and involved.

Nothing good ever came of involvement. It was fun for a while, but in the end inevitably led to disillusionment.

She blew out a breath. Thank God Finn had insisted on treating her scrapes. Of course now she had to break it to him that he wasn’t getting lucky after all.

Or maybe not
, she thought a moment later when the outer flap was pulled back and he bent to enter, a pan of gently steaming water carefully balanced in his big hands, a water bottle tucked under one arm and his ultra-absorbent backpacker’s towel thrown over a muscular shoulder. Because to her surprise, all the crazed sexuality she’d thought firmly extinguished roared back to life as if someone had tossed gasoline on a banked fire. Her grasp around her shins went slack, then dropped away and her legs slid back to their original cross-legged position.

Finn had clearly been watching his footing and trying to keep his bent back from brushing the ceiling of the low tent. But once he was all the way in he raised his gaze to glance at her.

And stopped dead. “Holy shit,” he breathed in a raspy voice. “
Look
at you.”

He did just that, his gaze zeroing in on her breasts, stiff nipples poking against the mocha lace of her demi cups, then at the plump lips of her sex already growing damp behind the until-then unnoticed abrasion of her panties. When he finished looking his fill, he leisurely mapped the expanse of the bare skin that curved and hollowed between the two scraps of fabric.

Then he blew out a quiet breath and, assuming a neutral expression, squatted next to her hip and set the pan on the floor of the tent. “Here,” he said, reaching to roll up the flap on the mesh window to let in more light. “Let’s take a look at the damage.”

He checked her over with methodical thoroughness, having her reach her bent-elbowed arms toward the ceiling so he could see the undersides in one instance, and then roll up onto first one hip, then the other so he could inspect the backs of her thighs in another. And all the while he gently probed her various scrapes, bumps and bruises.

Finally, he sat back on his heels. “You look like you were on the losing end of the war, darlin’.”

“Hey, I’m alive and ambulatory. That says ‘won it’ to me.”

“Valid point.” He twisted around, snagged the washcloth she hadn’t realized was in the pan of water and wrung it out. Then, exerting obvious care, he began cleansing her wounds.

She sat quietly as he finished blotting dry the wounds he’d washed, then applied the triple antibiotic cream. This wasn’t half as uncomfortable as she’d anticipated.

Then he capped the tube of salve and sat back. Giving her a level look, he said, “Now for the hard part.”

She must have shot him a look every bit as uneasy as his words made her feel, for he shrugged and brushed a hand over her hair, making her realize how much sand clung to the damp strands.

“I left the ones that took off the most skin for last,” he said. “It’s going to take more effort—and unfortunately discomfort for you—to remove the grit from those than the smaller scrapes did.”

Hadn’t she suspected precisely that when she’d knocked off as much sand as possible before entering the tent? All the same, for a brief moment she’d gotten her hopes up and she blew out a wordless breath that managed to convey the “oh, shit” she was feeling.

“I know,” he agreed as though she’d actually verbalized the sentiment out loud and held up the water bottle. “Let’s step outside. If I use this to stream water on the worst areas it might clean them without having to scrub. And that’s our primary aim in the let’s-keep-Mags-comfortable sweepstakes. It’s gonna be messy, though.”

Mags shrugged and rose to her feet to follow him from the tent. She had a moment of self-consciousness as she straightened to her full height in the brilliant sunshine. Yet except for Finn there wasn’t a soul in sight—and he’d already seen her in her underwear. So when he led her over to a piece of driftwood, she sat where he indicated and leaned over, bracing her arms against her knees to open the landscape of her back for his perusal, since he’d indicated that where her tank top had separated from her shorts and her right shoulder had sustained the worst of the damage.

But instead of immediately starting in, he said, “You know that I’ve slept with a lot of women. But I want you to know that I’ve always worn a condom and I have a clean bill of health.”

“Me, too,” she said. “I can’t claim to have always practiced safe sex. I was all about the stupid risks when I was a kid, but someone must have been looking out for me because I dodged both pregnancy and all the communicable diseases, which was more than I deserved.” Looking at him over her shoulder, she said, “Can we get this over with? I don’t deal well with suspense.”

“You bet,” he agreed gently.

Determined not to whimper like a baby, she drew a deep breath, but still had to grit her teeth when the first stream from the water bottle set the wounds to throbbing. It helped to hear Finn swearing beneath his breath on her behalf as he cleaned the deeper abrasions. All the same, some of the things he had to do hurt like the dickens and she suddenly felt way too emotional. She found herself battling a serious urge to cry.

And Mags Deluca didn’t do the crying thing in front of people.

Well, okay, she had almost done so a couple of times with him, but, c’mon, that was just now when she’d admitted how afraid she’d been she was going to drown and on the first night when things had been brand-new crazy. Fear tears were understandable and that first night she’d come close only after episode upon episode had piled up. Anyway, in the end she hadn’t full-out cried either time.

All the more reason to steel herself against breaking down now, though. Those two almost slipups could be forgiven. A third, genuine one? No, no. It just plain wasn’t gonna happen.

Suddenly she remembered her earlier bargain and grabbed on to it, welcoming the starch it infused in her backbone. The instant he finished putting antibiotic salve on the second scrape she said, “Lose some clothing.”

For a second he went still behind her. Then she heard rustling and his hand and lower arm came into sight, dangling his T-shirt in front of her, before opening tough-skinned fingers to let it drift to the ground.

Her mouth went dry over his corded, hair-feathered forearm—an
arm
, for God’s sake—and she made a rude noise in an attempt to pretend it hadn’t gotten her all hot and bothered. “That’s it?” she said coolly. “I’ve seen your naked chest before. I was hoping for something a little more revealing this time.”

“We wouldn’t want you getting too excited too soon.”

“Please. I’ve let you slide but we both know with all the doctoring you’ve already done, by rights you should be buck-naked right now.”

“Trust me, Magdalene—”

“Mags!”

“Mags,” he said easily. “Trust me when I say a sunburned dick won’t do either of us any good.”