The Castaway Bride (5 page)

Her own lips still tingled from the touch of his fingers. She was so close she could feel the heat from his body, smell his spicy maleness. His eyes were shadowed and she could see a pulse throbbing under the tan skin of his temple.

Surely, surely he wasn’t going to kiss her? And surely she wasn’t swaying toward him in anticipation of a kiss, her heart pounding, her lips swelling and parting in welcome?

But no.

Abruptly, Matt Slade stepped back from her, and returned his attention to the wheel, giving it a particularly savage twist to starboard that caused Cristy to stumble at the sudden change of direction. She staggered, caught her balance, and sat down heavily on the soft cushions of the cockpit seat.

She was left to stare at him in bewilderment, feeling bereft and confused, her mouth aching for what until a moment ago she hadn’t known she wanted—the exciting pressure of his mouth on hers.

She fisted her hands in the folds of her skirts, bewildered and more than a bit angry at herself for her reaction. Whatever this feeling was that made her tremble at his touch, she knew with utmost certainty that it could not be trusted.

Feelings like this if nourished and allowed to blossom could only wither in pain and disillusionment. She knew that from hard-earned experience. Thank heaven she only had a few more hours left to bear of Matt Slade’s company.

He was silent, concentrating on navigating his boat with its magnificent billowing white sails and Cristy was glad of it. Glad and grateful that he had something to concentrate on other than herself.

Perspiration beaded on her forehead under the tight headdress that held her veil in place. In spite of the brisk breeze, she felt warm and sticky in the confines of the cockpit. The close-fitting gown with its boned corselet beneath was designed to be worn in the icy air-conditioning of the Starlight Hotel.

She needed to splash some cold water on her face. Get rid of that stocking. Now that she thought about it—she needed to go to the bathroom.

It was dumb, but she felt too embarrassed to ask Matt Slade directions to the powder room. But what could she do? Sit here and cross her legs for the next two hours?

She overcame her reluctance and Matt, without wasting any words, gave her the necessary directions. “By the way, the bathroom on a boat is called the head,” he added. His voice was so terse she didn’t dare ask why.

She found herself puzzling over him as she fought her voluminous skirts down the small stairway. He’d just spoken to her as abruptly as if she were unwelcome cargo. Bridal ballast. So why had he told her she was lovely? Was it just the way of drop-dead handsome men like Matt Slade to throw away unnecessary compliments?

Yes, she thought, surprised at the twist of pain the thought caused her. That’s it. A man that good looking was just automatically used to flattering women. Unaware of the effect his casually tossed words had on their emotions. And what about that practiced way he’d run his fingers across her mouth?

It meant nothing. Just something for him to while away the time until they reached the airport. She prayed he didn’t realize how perilously close she’d been to responding to him.

To reach the bathroom—she couldn’t think of it as a head—she had to guide her full skirts through a small but luxuriously appointed living room. The bathroom itself was tiny but with every comfort you’d expect in an expensive hotel room. This vessel must be worth a fortune.

Whose fortune?

In her business experience, a yacht like this was a rich man’s toy for the pin-stripe-suited, corporate Howards of this world—more often than not a tax deduction. She warned herself not to judge on appearances, but something about this setup didn’t appear quite right.

She puzzled some more over it as she washed her hands with the bar of sandalwood soap that must be the soap Matt used. She recognized the warm, spicy scent that mingled with his maleness.

Unbidden, the image came into her mind of Matt, magnificently naked in the clear-fronted shower cubicle just an arm’s length away from her.

She could see the water pouring over his powerful body as he lathered up this self-same bar of soap on his muscular chest, twisting and turning to reach his hard buttocks and his lean, powerful thighs. The water was making the hair on his head lie flat and sleek against his skin, taming the mat of dark hair on his chest as it descended to a vee below his hard, six-pack belly…

What would happen if she, naked too, were to climb in with him?

She dropped the soap into the basin as if it were burning from his body heat.

How could she let herself fantasize so foolishly? She did
not
want to feel this powerful surge of attraction to this man.

He’d been kind to offer her an escape from her wedding. But that didn’t stop him from being the type of guy who might as well wear a placard on his back proclaiming:
Beware! This man will break your heart.

She knew his type only too well. You can’t trust lust, she reminded herself. Or sexy, untamed men who fed you sweet words that meant nothing. Men like him grabbed what they wanted, plundered hearts, threw dreams overboard and then moved on, not caring about the wreckage they left behind. Men like him were emotional pirates.

Pirates
. Why did she always come back to the image of a pirate when she thought about Matt Slade?

She froze in the act of drying her hands on the luxurious, linen towel. Had Matt Slade stolen this boat? Just helped himself from the array lined up at the marina like a millionaire’s candy counter?

Matt Slade mightn’t be a serial killer but could he be a boat thief?

She crossed her arms in front of her chest and bit down on her suddenly trembling bottom lip. She realized again how vulnerable she was, alone with this man somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

What should she do? Barricade herself in the bathroom until they reached Hibiscus Island—or do her best to try and find out the truth? She could be quite wrong, might be unfairly judging someone’s fortune by his appearance and his attitude. But she had to find out.

T
he delicate scent of roses that wafted ahead of her told Matt that Cristy was back in the cockpit even before he heard the rustle of her skirts.

Immediately he sensed a change in her. She was nervous, like a high-spirited thoroughbred filly, her eyes darting everywhere but unable to meet his.

Damn! He’d frightened her. He cursed himself for reaching out to trace the pout of her lips. He’d fought the impulse but had found it impossible to resist. Now she was backing away from him.

She would think he’d been harsh. Insensitive. All those things Julia had accused him of before she started boinking his brother.

This was a runaway bride. A heart-broken bride, wounded by the man she loved. She was hurt, vulnerable. The last thing she’d welcome were advances from another man.

Advances he must be insane to have made. He’d come up to these islands to take time out from a life that had become untenable. The last thing he wanted was the complication of a woman.

So she was beautiful.

So she was intriguing.

So what?

She was another man’s bride he had let undermine his defenses.
He could not allow this to happen.

He’d allow himself no more distractions, no more wasted moments of indulgence while he puzzled over why he found Cristy Walters so fascinating. And so very desirable.

It was just as well it was only two hours sailing time to Hibiscus Island. There he could off load his unexpected passenger, wave her goodbye and watch her walk away from him, taking that lingering, tantalizing rose of her scent off his boat forever.

Right now he did not want to partake in any sort of conversation of a personal nature. It came as a relief when she started to ask him questions about
Wayfarer
. Questions about the equipment. Questions about the fittings. Questions that were ridiculously easy to answer as with every word she displayed her total lack of knowledge of any kind of watercraft.

He was amused at first—her ignorance was kind of cute. But then he began to suspect that he was being tested. And when he realized what she was up to, his amusement evaporated.

“Hold with the twenty questions. You think I’ve stolen this boat, don’t you?”

She paled until her face was only shades warmer than her bridal veil. But, though he could see her eyes widen with apprehension, she met his glare without flinching.

She stumbled over her words. “Not exactly. I didn’t say that. But you don’t seem like... like the kind of person who would own a boat like this.”

Did he look like the type of guy who went around stealing luxury yachts?

Mentally, he surveyed his worn jeans, scruffy T-shirt that dated back to his construction site days, hair that inched toward his shoulders. Yeah, dressed like this maybe he could be misconstrued as a boat thief.

By someone so hung up on appearances she couldn’t see past the clothes a person wore.

For all her unconventional upbringing, for all her open, expressive face Cristy was, after all, the superficial, empty kind of woman he’d initially judged her to be. He knew he should have let that white charger stay at home in its stable and munch on a carrot.

His disappointment made him speak more harshly than he should have. “Look, you’re here against my better judgment. I don’t particularly want you on my boat.” He continued to speak over her gasp. “So hold off with what you’re saying.”

Miss Too-Good-To-Be-True Bride had obviously moved a long way from the commune to feel quite at home in a circle where money and appearances ruled all.

Let this runaway bride think he was some kind of a boat bum.

But not a thief.

He pointed to where the fat bunch of keys hung from the ignition. “I’ve got the keys.”

“So you own this boat?” Those impossibly blue eyes widened and disbelief underscored her every word.

What gave with this woman? It appeared he’d been judged and found a suspicious character. A man whose reputation was founded on scrupulous honesty and openness in his dealings.

But even though she suspected him of the worst, she meant to keep questioning him until she got the answers she wanted. That showed some kind of courage.

He answered her question honestly, without giving away any unnecessary information. “No, I don’t own the boat. It’s owned by a company.”

No need to say who owned the company.

“Oh.” Her thoughts were visible as they flashed across her face. “So you work on the boat?”

Matt’s irritation began to be tinged with amusement. Now she had him down as a deckhand. Did he really look that disreputable since he’d let his hair grow and left behind his business suits?

“I live on the boat.” Let her make what she wanted of that.

“You live on the boat?” The perfectly shaped eyebrows lifted.

“Yes.”

“Do—?”

He held up a hand to forestall her. “And what I’m doing and why is none of your business. Do you understand?”

“Yes but—”

“No buts. Quit the interrogation—that is, if you don’t want to hop into the life raft and paddle yourself back to shore.”

“You wouldn’t—”

“Try me. You wouldn’t drown. And the sharks aren’t too hungry around here.”

“Sharks!” Her eyes widened in horror and she pulled her long skirts tightly around her.

Matt nearly laughed out loud at her expression—all his bad humor dissipated.

He shouldn’t tease her. She was a tourist from the city and they were always terrified of sharks. It would be cruel to throw in a few descriptions of white pointers with six-foot jaws.

“Yeah. Sharks. Big ones.”

He regretted the words as soon as they’d escaped his mouth. Her face had gone as white as her veil and her slender frame was trembling. She seemed vulnerable and frail—and he felt mean and out of order. He certainly wouldn’t mention the sea snakes or venomous box jelly fish. She might not get the Aussie humor.

“I... I...” She swallowed. “I’m scared of sharks. Really scared. It’s... it’s like a phobia. I... I’m sorry to be so silly.”

She bit down on that lovely full mouth in an effort to stop it quivering.

Those white knight instincts Matt thought he’d banished came rushing back in force. They made him long to take her in his arms and reassure her she had far more chance of being knocked over by a car than of ever being eaten by a shark.

But no way was he getting that close. He’d come too near already to breaking the rules he’d imposed upon himself. He braced his feet against the deck as if that could protect him against her bewitchment.

As he did so, the radio crackled into life. He listened to the first words with only half an ear but the next words brought him to full alert. He flicked on the auto pilot to take over the steering, hurried below so he didn’t miss a second of the message.

“What’s that?” Cristy peered down after him.

“Storm warning,” he said as she followed him below to listen. He cursed. No wonder the sea had been getting rougher, the wind stronger than he’d anticipated. She looked at him questioningly.

He thought quickly. “Nothing serious. Storms are common for this area at this time of year. But we’ll have to change course.”

“Change course? You mean, away from the airport?” Her eyes glittered with alarm. What did she think he was going to do? Abduct her?

“No, we’ll just have to take a more sheltered route. It might take a little longer but I’ll get you to the airport.”

Her relief was obvious. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“But you’ll have to help me with the boat. I’ll need to reef the mainsail before it gets too hard to manage and tears in the wind. I’ll put up a small storm jib to slow us down and make the boat easier to maneuver.”

Her blue eyes widened. “Reef the mainsail?”

Matt groaned. Her only experience of boats obviously came from sailing the toy variety in the bathtub.

“Reef. Pull it down. It means to pull the sail down.”

C
risty bristled at the patronizing tone in his voice. “I might know zilch about boats, but I can learn. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”