The Castaway Bride (6 page)

Matt looked surprised at her words and then pleased. He started to say something but the boat gave a sudden lurch and she slipped as she tried to grab onto something to steady herself. She found herself braced against Matt’s muscular chest, her face just inches from his.

She could feel his warmth through the fabric of his T-shirt, his breath on her face. Her body was pressed against his, breast to chest, thigh to thigh and every part of her body throbbed into awareness at the contact. Disconcerted by the intimacy, she recoiled from him but there was little space behind her to back away.

“Let’s get back on deck,” Matt ordered, his voice hoarse.
Had he felt it too?
“We’ll stay on auto pilot while you help me with the sail.”

“Aye, aye, captain.” She made a mock salute as she followed him up the stairs unable, even at this tense moment, to stop herself from admiring his butt. “But hold on a minute. I need to do something before we start work.”

She wrenched off her long, pale-pink fingernails one by one and flung them on the deck. Then mustered a faint smile at the look of utter horror on Matt’s face.

“False ones,” she explained. “Just for the wedding. I can’t be bothered with long nails. They get in the way. Now show me what you want me to do.”

Back on deck, she was shocked at how the weather had changed. The same wind that had teased her veil around her head back on shore now wrenched at the wispy tulle, so it stood almost vertically from her head. She put her hand up in a futile effort to pull it down.

“Get rid of that thing,” Matt ordered. “It’ll just get in the way.”

Obediently, she tugged the headdress away from her head. As she did so, the wind tore her wedding veil from her hands and carried it aloft where it spiraled and twisted for a moment before flying out of sight.

She watched it for a moment, regretting its loss, then shrugged. She didn’t know why she hadn’t ditched it earlier. What did a runaway bride need with a veil?

Matt signaled her to join him. She found herself panting with the effort as she pulled on the rope that would lower the wildly flapping mainsail. Beside her, his shoulder touching hers, Matt was pulling hard, too. “Storm warning has been upgraded,” he said.

The muscles in his arms and back were pumping furiously. She was so close she could smell his sweat mingling with the sandalwood scent of his soap—a heady scent that made her shiver with an unexpected pleasure. She tried to banish thoughts of her out-of-control fantasy of him naked in the shower.

She needed to concentrate, force herself to ignore her growing attraction to him and get on with the job. It took all her attention to match his rhythm, the muscles in her upper arms shrieking their protest. This was why she hated the gym—exercise like this hurt.

“How much more of this torture?” she asked, panting.

“Not much,” said Matt. “Once this is down, we’ll get up the storm jib and then—”

Suddenly the boat jarred and shuddered. Cristy was flung against Matt’s side. The breath was knocked from her as they both fell to the deck.

She struggled to her feet. “What the—?”

Matt pulled himself up and rushed to the port side of the boat. He swore. “We’ve hit a submerged reef.” He swore again and slammed his fist on the deck rail. “The depth sounder must be out.”

“What—?” Surely she wasn’t hearing what she was hearing?

“There’s a hole in the hull and we’re taking in water. The boat will sink. We’re going to have to bail out.”

“Bail out? You mean…?”

Matt’s voice was tense. “Take the life raft.”

“Th… the life raft?” Her voice rose.

“Don’t panic. We’re right near an island. Look, you can see it from here. We’ll head for it.”

“I’m not panicking,” she lied.

Sure enough, she could see palm trees and greenery not so very far away. But in between lay a heck of a lot of water that had changed from benevolent turquoise to a churning, white-flecked gray.

“Follow me below, while I radio, let the coastguard know what’s happening. The life jackets are there. Come on. Quickly.”

But Matt swore even more vigorously when he fruitlessly punched the keys and fiddled with the dials on the equipment panel. “The radio is out, so is the computer. And no cell phone reception, of course.”

Cristy noticed a steadily growing pool of water on the floor. Her stomach contracted with sudden fear. The nearest she’d ever come to real danger was dodging the cabs on Fifth Avenue.

Matt reached under the seat, hauled out a large, waterproof fanny pack and strapped it onto his waist. “Don’t worry. I’ve attached the emergency beacon. We’ll be okay. Just do as I say.”

He dragged out two yellow life jackets and tossed one to her. “Put it on. Now.”

“But I don’t—”

Before Cristy could complete her confession of ignorance, he’d slipped the buoyancy vest over her neck and fastened it around her waist. Then did the same for himself.

Moving with controlled haste, he wrenched open a hatch and dragged out a huge fiberglass canister. “Life raft,” he explained as he yanked at a ripcord. Muscles straining with the effort, he threw the canister overboard. On impact with the water it burst open and puffed into what looked like an alarmingly small orange-and-brown balloon. That was a life raft?

Cristy quailed as she looked from it, to the seas buffeting the yacht, and back again to the raft. “Are you serious? That thing looks like a toy.”

“It’s not a toy and it will get us to shore. C’mon. Jump in.”

She froze. It seemed a long way down.

“Wh… what about sh… sharks?”

“No sharks in these waters.”

“But you said—”

“I was teasing you. Now come on, jump.” His voice was terse.

Paralyzed, she stared down at the water.”

“This is no time to be a wimp. Jump. I’ll count—one, two, three…”

“I am not a w—” she started, then looked at the expression in his eyes.

Gathering her skirts in her hands she jumped down into the life raft, staggered for a moment, and sat down so suddenly the raft rocked from side to side. Her full skirts seemed to take up half the boat and she clutched them to her.

Matt, carrying the oars, landed in after her. His weight caused the raft to rock again. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he said.

“It depends on your definition of bad,” she said through gritted teeth.

Refusing to think about sharks, she held tightly onto the sides of the raft while Matt fitted the oars and started to row with strong, steady strokes that pulled them toward shore.

She noted the impressive flex of his muscles. If she had to get shipwrecked she couldn’t be in better hands. He obviously knew exactly what he was doing. She didn’t feel nearly as frightened as she probably should have.

The palm trees on shore grew larger with impressive speed. As did a line of breakers. How on earth was Matt going to steer this flimsy craft through that surf? Before she had time to ask him, he stopped rowing.

“Uh, just close your eyes for a minute, will you?” he asked.

“Close my eyes? Why?” She was surprised at the gruffness of his tone.

“Just do it,” he barked. “If you want to get to shore safely.”

She obeyed, even when his knees collided with hers. But at the rasping sound of a zipper opening, she was unable to resist peeking.

Matt was tugging at his jeans, squirming in the bottom of the raft as he tried to pull them down over his buttocks.

Cristy smothered a laugh.

Matt scowled at her. “I told you not to look.”

“Sorry,” she said, mock humble. “I’m not embarrassed if you’re not. But why are you doing that?”
And why couldn’t she stop looking?

“In case I have to swim.”

Oh. So he’d guide the raft through the surf from the water. That made sense.

He stood up, sending the raft rocking madly, with his jeans half-mast around his knees, revealing lean, tightly muscled legs. He cursed as he struggled to get off his jeans without toppling into the water. The raft started to swing in circles.

“Hey, watch it,” she said, gripping onto the sides, starting to feel seasick.

The raft stabilized. Matt ditched the jeans and was left clad in black, jersey-knit boxer shorts that clung to his buttocks and thighs and left no doubt at all of his masculinity. As his crotch was practically in her face she couldn’t escape the impressive evidence.

Oh my
. In just his undershorts and his T-shirt rucked up under his life jacket, his body was every bit as magnificent as she had imagined in her fantasies. If anything, his shoulders were broader, his pecs bigger, his belly six-pack perfect. It didn’t take much imagination at all to see how he’d look completely naked.

“So, now your turn,” he said.

“M… my turn?” she spluttered.

Matt reached into his fanny pack and pulled out a large Swiss army knife, flicking it open to reveal a long blade.

Cristy gasped and huddled backward into the boat. “What the heck is that for?”

“I’m going to have to cut off your dress.”

“Cut off my dress? Are you crazy?” She clutched her skirts defensively to herself.

“How do you think you’re going to swim in a wedding gown?”

“Swim?”

“Yeah. Swim. We have to be prepared to swim when we go through the breakers.”

Christie swallowed. Hard. And tried desperately not to think about sharks. Especially the bride-eating variety.

Before she had time to react, Matt reached over and hacked a jagged hole in the silky fabric of her gown.

“Hey!” she cried, clutching her hands protectively across her thighs.

“C’mon Cristy,” he said. “Stop mucking around and help me. Stand up, for crying out loud.”

“Stand up?” Her voice rose to a squeak. “And how do you expect me to do that?”

“Try slowly and carefully.”

Tentatively she stood up, wobbled, and found her balance. “Get that knife away from me. I’m scared you’re going to cut me.”

“What do you want me to do? Tear your skirts with my teeth?”

Cristy paused, trying to maintain her balance in more ways than one. “Why not?”

Matt spluttered. “I wasn’t serious. But…”

He bent his head and, with strong white teeth, tore into her skirts then ripped them apart with both hands, tearing the layers of fabric in shreds from around her legs. The rending of fine silk made a screeching noise that echoed in the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean.

His hands gripped her legs and Cristy felt his warm breath on her bare thighs. She had to steel herself against the betraying tremors of reaction. But she couldn’t stop a low “Oh!” from escaping her lips.

Matt looked up. “Is there a problem?”

“Uh no,” she managed to get out, fighting an urge to laugh hysterically as she tried to maintain her balance on the rocking raft. How could she react so sensually to his touch in such traumatic circumstances?

Matt bent back to his task. When he finished, Cristy looked down and gasped. All that was left of her exquisite gown was an abbreviated, jagged-edge skirt that skimmed the bare flesh of her thighs and barely covered her garters and lacy thong. She pressed her hands to her thighs in a futile attempt at modesty.

“If that’s what you did with your teeth I’d hate to see what you’d do with a knife,” she gasped.

Matt surveyed his work. He narrowed his eyes. Then he reached for his fanny pack and his knife. “Maybe a bit more
does
need to come off.”

Cristy panicked. “No Matt. That’s enough… that—”

She stepped backward to evade him, lost her balance, desperately flailed her arms like windmills to try and keep steady, teetered on the edge of the raft and then, dragging an oar with her, fell overboard, the splash she made pushing water onto the raft and sending it into a wild spin.

“Maaatt!” she wailed.

CHAPTER FOUR

Cristy
was dreaming. She dreamed Matt was kissing her. His hard, warm mouth was possessing hers, his hands were roaming her body and it felt wonderful. She moaned and arched her back to get closer—and then awoke, spluttering, coughing and with the taste of salt water sharp in her mouth.

Bewildered, her mind having trouble focusing, she saw Matt leaning over her—near enough to kiss but his face dark with worry rather than passion. He was wet, his hair plastered to his head. Water dripped from him onto her in big, warm drops.

Why was he so wet? Then Cristy realized with a shock that she, too, was drenched. She was lying on her back in sand that scratched the bare skin of her legs and arms, the sawn-off skirts of her wedding dress sodden around her thighs. Water swirled around her toes. She blinked her eyes against the harsh light.

“Thank God you’re all right.” Matt pulled her up into a sitting position. “I’ve been giving you the kiss of life.”

Cristy coughed and spluttered some more.
The kiss of life?
So it wasn’t a dream. Hazily she remembered falling off the raft, the shock of cold water, Matt’s arms around her, and… and a dark fin.

“Wh… what happened?” she asked, her mind still a fog of confusion. Shakily, she looked around her.

She and Matt were on a beach, on the sand near the edge of the water. Waves rolled onto the beach, ran up the sand then surged around her feet in a foam of froth.

Behind her, the sand stretched to a grove of palm trees leaning precariously toward the water. Beside her lay her flotation jacket, looking as though it had been wrenched off. Matt was shrugging his off, and tossing his fanny pack up on the sand out of reach of the waves.

“Wh... where am I?” she asked in a voice that didn’t quite sound like her own.

“On land. We’re safe. You freaked out when you saw a dolphin and you must have fainted.”

“A dolphin? I was frightened of a dolphin? Don’t be crazy. I love dolphins.”

“You thought it was a shark.”

“A shark.” She shuddered, then swallowed, and the salt burned her throat, choking her into a cough. Matt patted her on her back until she stopped coughing. “Ohmigod, I remember now. That fin. It was just like
Jaws
.” She remembered struggling with her terror. And then... nothing.