The Castaway Bride (8 page)

He looked like he’d lost his best friend. A reassuring thought struck her: would he look so heartbroken if that was a stolen boat slowly breaking up on the reef? That look of possessive pride was a look men reserved exclusively for their boy-toys—car, boat, motorcycle. He was no boat thief.

She tore her eyes away from his impressive butt as she sneezed again. Surely she wasn’t going to catch cold?

She felt more than a little annoyed that her simple boat ride to an airport had ended up like this. And then she laughed. Out loud and a little hysterically. Hadn’t she leaped at the chance to come to Australia with her job because she’d thought her life was getting boring and predictable?

Matt turned to her and the look of concern on his face made her heart do a disconcerting flip. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” she said. “I’m so sorry about your boat.”

She still found it difficult to meet his gaze so looked around her, eyes widening as she took in her surroundings. “But you sure chose a nice place to shipwreck us.”

Even in the gray light of the impending storm the island was spectacular, more unspoiled than Starlight, the resort island she had fled from. Here, palms leaned toward them, a riot of tropical growth encroached on the white, gritty sand that scratched the soles of her feet, and a mountain covered in lush greenery rose behind. In fact, she’d like to see a bit more of the place. But not right now.

Every muscle in her body ached and her torn, wet dress, sticky with salt water, clung uncomfortably to her thighs. What she wanted, above all else, was to check into a luxurious hotel room.

There she’d have a long, hot shower and wash all the salt and tangles from her hair. A meal would be good, too. She’d been too nervous this morning to have breakfast and her tummy was threatening to rumble. Room service was in order.

She licked her parched lips, the taste of salt still in her mouth. No, even before the shower, the first thing she’d do when she checked in would be to have a drink from the mini-bar. A long, cool drink. After she’d showered and eaten, she’d check out the hotel boutique. Even a sarong would be better than this ragged remnant of her bridal finery.

Only then would she worry about resuming her trip to the airport on Hibiscus Island.

“Which way is the hotel?” she asked Matt, hoping it wouldn’t be too long a hike.

His dark eyebrows rose. “Hotel?” he said. “This is an uninhabited island, Cristy. There’s no hotel.”

“You’re kidding me?”

Matt shook his head.

Cristy couldn’t keep the panic from her voice. “No hotel? But aren’t all the islands up here resorts?”

Matt shook his head and Cristy was suddenly aware that she was a foreigner, ignorant of the intricacies of Australian geography.

“Many of them are uninhabited. Like this one. This island is slated for development but—”

“So there are people living here?” Cristy’s voice rose in hope.

“When I said uninhabited I meant uninhabited.”

“You mean… we really are shipwrecked?”

Matt nodded. “Until a rescue party comes after us. And I’m sure that won’t be long,” he added reassuringly.

“Uh, how long?”

Matt shrugged, seeming not at all concerned. “A day or two maybe, when someone notices we’re missing. The beacon I stuck on the boat will lead them to us.”

A day or two stranded on an island alone with this handsome hunk who sent her hormones rocketing into orbit?

Cristy swallowed hard against an impulse to panic. Even harder against an impulse to give into the unholy excitement that surged through her at the thought of being alone with Matt.

Just him and her.
And hardly any clothes.

“You mean we have to shelter in a cave or something?”

Matt laughed, but the sound did nothing to reassure her. “Not quite.”

“What do you mean, ‘not quite’?”

“Not far from here, there’s a surveyor’s hut. A survival shack. Basic accommodation for the guys who come here to survey the island and prepare reports for the resort developer who owns it. Fishermen sometimes use it, too.”

Cristy’s heart plunged to knee level. So much for her fantasies of a luxury hotel room. “A survival shack?”

Thank heaven she hadn’t confided in him her dreams of a shower and room service.

“I haven’t been here for a while but from memory it’s comfortable enough. Though I’m not sure how long since it’s been used.”

Cristy’s feet seemed rooted in the sand. No hotel, just some old shack? She sneezed again. She didn’t even have a tissue. Hang on, wasn’t there an antique lace handkerchief tucked in her frilly blue garter? Miriam—traitorous Miriam—had given both handkerchief and garter to her; the “something old” and “something blue” bits of her wedding regalia.

Cristy hauled the remnants of her skirt up to the top of her thigh, paused at Matt’s quick indrawn breath. She looked up but he abruptly turned away. She felt around her garter. Yes, here it was. A ridiculously small scrap of fine linen and lace. But of course it was soaking wet. She wrung it out. Maybe there’d be somewhere to dry it in the shack.

“Do you know where this survival shack is?” she asked. Although it was still only early afternoon, and the day was hot, the sky had darkened and the air felt heavy. She thought she heard the distant rumble of thunder.

Matt’s eyes narrowed as he looked around them. The sand led into rainforest-type growth, behind that the green-clad mountain reared above them. “Not far. Through the trees there.”

Peering through the undergrowth, Cristy could see the faint remnants of a track.

“C’mon,” Matt said, taking off toward it.

She hesitated, concerned about her tender, bare feet.

“Too tough for you?”

“No. You’re talking to a hippie chick here, remember. I camped wild with my parents all the time. Although it… uh, was quite some time ago.”

She’d wimped out enough for today. Fainting at the sight of a dolphin, for heaven’s sake, how would she ever live that one down?

Gamely, she struck out behind him. She winced as a sharp piece of coral jabbed into her foot. “Ouch!”

Matt laughed. He laughed!

“It’s okay,” she said hastily, pretending it didn’t hurt, taking another tentative step.

“It’s not okay with those city-tender feet,” Matt said. “You don’t want to get coral cuts. They’re easily infected. Let me—”

Uh uh. She wasn’t going to let him fool around with her feet again, not when she remembered how his touch on the boat had thrilled her. “I’m fine—”

“No you’re not,” said Matt, and she found herself swung into his arms.

Cristy struggled. She pounded her fists on his shoulders. She told him she didn’t like his cave man tactics.

Not for a moment did she think of the dangers of being stranded on a tropical island. The danger was right here as she fought the bliss of being held close by her fellow castaway as he carried her into the rainforest.

CHAPTER FIVE

Matt
kicked open the door of the hut, conscious every second of the soft, delicious warmth of Cristy in his arms.

Why in hell had he thought it was a good idea to pick her up and carry her? Once she’d quit pummeling him, she’d snuggled in close. Her breasts pressed against his chest, her arms twined around his neck. That scent of roses from her was even headier now, sharpened with the tang of salt. He was intoxicated by her scent, aroused by her closeness.

Hell. He hadn’t stopped being aroused by her closeness since the surprising moment she’d climbed on top of him in the surf.

He carried her across the threshold of the hut. There was a canvas bed ahead of him and all he wanted to do was throw Cristy down on it, strip her of her remaining finery and gaze at her body before getting naked himself and—

But she squirmed out of his arms. “Why didn’t you tell me this place was so cute?” she asked, looking around her in delight at the one room, cabin-like structure.

He looked around him at the shabby, spartan furnishings, the primitive facilities. “Cute?”

“It’s like Snow White’s cottage in the woods—but without the gingerbread carvings.”

“Say again?” He couldn’t share her enthusiasm. It was just an old hut, something worthy only of demolition.

She tutted impatiently. “Didn’t you notice? The way all those big palm trees look like they’re protecting it? That gorgeous pink bougainvillea that climbs over the verandah. The corrugated iron roof. It’s so… so rustic.”

“It’s rustic all right,” said Matt dryly. “There’s not even a bathroom.”

“No bath—?” Cristy’s face clouded momentarily.

She looked around her. “I guess it’s not quite as cute inside as it is outside,” she conceded. “But it’s not nearly as bad as I thought it would be.”

Matt hadn’t been here for a while. “It’s not in bad shape,” he admitted. “The tropics can be tough on uninhabited buildings; mould, insects, you know that kind of thing.”

“Insects?”

“Cockroaches, spiders, other creepy crawlies.”

“Spiders?”

Cristy blanched and Matt immediately felt shot by remorse at teasing her. She might have a spider phobia as well as a fear of sharks for all he knew.

Then the color rushed into her face and she tilted her chin defiantly. “You don’t scare me, Matt Slade. I won’t pretend I like spiders but I can assure you that I won’t faint at the sight of one.”

He laughed, enjoying her feistiness and glad she accepted the crude nature of their shelter in such good spirits. If Julia or one of her crowd had found herself in a situation like this they would be hysterical by now. Miss Perfect was continuing to surprise him—and he liked it.

“Now come on, stop teasing me about bugs,” she said. “I’m thirsty. Any chance of a drink in this place?”

Matt walked over to a wooden bench under the window where an old enamel bowl served as a sink. He turned on the ancient faucet. Nothing.

“I’ll check the tank connection,” he said.

“Tank connection? Pardon my ignorance, but what do you mean by that?”

“There’s a big tank outside that collects rain water. The connection to the hut has either been turned off, or it’s blocked by a dead frog.”

Again Matt observed the way Cristy’s struggles with her emotions showed on her face. This time, disbelief vied with wariness.

“Frogs. You’re kidding me, right?”

Barely able to suppress a laugh, Matt shook his head. “No. Frogs are attracted to the water in tanks and sometimes they’re unable to get out.”

Cristy obviously still wasn’t sure whether to take him seriously or not. She stood with her hands on her hips, unaware of how her stance made her breasts thrust outward.

Matt couldn’t help notice—again—how firm and round they were and remember how responsive they’d been to his touch. She was barely covered by her torn-off dress. He forced himself to look away as she spoke.

“You don’t scare me with that one, either. I’m not afraid of frogs. In fact I think they’re kinda sweet.”

“I like frogs, too. But not to drink.”

Grateful for an excuse to get away and cool down from the sight of her, Matt turned back toward the door. “I’ll go and check why we’re not getting any water.”

But his ploy didn’t work. “I’ll come with you,” said Cristy from behind him.

Matt gritted his teeth. Didn’t she realize the effect she was having on him? How much more of it could he take before he did something he might regret?

C
risty followed Matt outside. The ground near the hut comprised softer sand with a scattering of spiky fallen brown, palm leaves. It was still uncomfortable under her bare feet.

But she didn’t admit to it—she was afraid of what she might do if Matt picked her up again and held her close. Like press herself wantonly against him and demand that he take her back inside to that bed and finish what they’d started in the surf.

She blushed. Had she really thought that? What had being shipwrecked done to her normally under-control libido?

But was it shipwreck—or was it Matt? Matt with his great body and devastating smile.

She followed him around to the side of the small building, relishing the sight of his powerful buttocks moving under the damp fabric of his shorts, his strong, muscular legs.

He was so hot! The way he’d swept her up into his arms and carried her through the undergrowth as though she were as light as the seagull feathers that drifted with the wind along the beach. Those muscles weren’t just for show. Then he’d carried her over the threshold.

Cristy paused as the irony of the situation hit her. On her wedding day to Howard she’d been carried over the threshold by another man—and had enjoyed every second of it.

Guiltily, she glanced down at the engagement ring gleaming on the third finger of her left hand. She hadn’t given Howard a thought since she’d set sail on Matt’s boat. How had he explained the whole fiasco to his guests? Was he looking for her? Her lips tightened. That was Howard’s problem—Howard’s and Miriam’s.

Matt turned back and caught her examining her ring. “So your rock survived the swim?”

“Yes, thank heaven, it’s worth a fortune.” She wondered why Matt’s face tightened to a frown. The ring meant nothing to her. But she would safeguard it until she could mail it back to Howard.

“Well you’d better look after it then,” Matt said gruffly, looking at the ring as if it were something loathsome.

He turned the corner of the hut and stopped in front of a large, round corrugated iron tank sitting on top of a wooden stand. He pushed aside some undergrowth and leaned down to find a faucet. He gave it a hard twist. “Not turned on. That’s why there’s no water inside the hut.” His voice was cool and impersonal.

Cristy cleared her throat. “No, frogs, huh?”

“Doesn’t look like it. The water is flowing okay now. You can have your drink.”

Why was he suddenly so grumpy?

“Matt, is there anything the matter?”

He turned to face her. The shutters were down again over the green eyes and that sensual mouth was set in an unyielding line. “No. Apart from the fact that we’re marooned on a deserted island and—”

She faced him squarely. “I didn’t mean that.”