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Shipwrecked with Mr Wrong
Nikki Logan


Marooned in paradise with a bikini-clad beauty……is surely the only way for a truly committed playboy to get shipwrecked! Ideally, however, Rob Dalton would have chosen a slightly friendlier companion! Prickly conservationist Honor Brier clearly just wants to be left alone with her birds and turtles.Honor’s had more than her fair share of heartbreak, and the isolated island has been a perfect place to lick her wounds in peace. She has no time for accidental tourists. Yet Rob is charming and infuriatingly attractive – his sheer passion for life is difficult to resist. Slowly Honor is discovering that even playboys may have their good points…










Praise for Nikki Logan

‘Superb debut—4.5 stars.’

—RT Book Reviews on

Lights, Camera … Kiss the Boss

‘Now, here is an Australian writer who manages to both

tell a good story and to capture Australia well.I had fun

from start to finish. Nikki Logan will be one to watch.’

—www.goodreads.com on

Lights, Camera … Kiss the Boss

‘This story has well-defined and soundly motivated

characters as well as a heart-wrenching conflict.’

—RT Book Reviews on

Their Newborn Gift




About the Author


NIKKI LOGAN lives next to a string of protected wetlands in Western Australia, with her long-suffering partner and a menagerie of furred, feathered and scaly mates. She studied film and theatre at university, and worked for years in advertising and film distribution before finally settling down in the wildlife industry. Her romance with nature goes way back, and she considers her life charmed, given she works with wildlife by day and writes fiction by night—the perfect way to combine her two loves. Nikki believes that the passion and risk of falling in love are perfectly mirrored in the danger and beauty of wild places. Every romance she writes contains an element of nature, and if readers catch a waft of rich earth or the spray of wild ocean between the pages she knows her job is done.

Visit Nikki online at www.nikkilogan.com.au


Also by Nikki Logan

Lights, Camera … Kiss the Boss

Their Newborn Gift

Seven-Day Love Story

The Soldier’s Untamed Heart

Friends to Forever

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk








Shipwrecked with Mr Wrong

Nikki Logan






















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Pete: who I’d want with me if I was marooned on a

deserted isle, and who’d be able to build us an existence

to rival Robinson Crusoe’s.

Thanks to Ammon Hontz and Janine Rose for your help

with the undersea aspects of this story, and to

Helen Pickering for your assistance with all things Cocos.

Big thanks to my editor, Jo Grant, for believing in this

story so much.




















CHAPTER ONE

Pulu Keeling (Island), Western Australia


‘What the …?’

Rob Dalton throttled the powerboat down to a gentle chug-a-lug and snatched up his binoculars. A frown stretched his sea-whipped skin and tipped his lucky fishing cap forward.

He was seeing things.

Must be.

He kept his eye firmly pinned on the natural lagoon created by the hazardous coral reefs around Pulu Keeling where he’d caught a momentary glimpse of her—and it. Clean, cold ocean swelled between The Player and the tiny island, obscuring his view just as he thought he might get another glimpse. Then there she was—swimming strongly towards shore, a glinting silvery mass propelling her along.

No way …

Rob lowered the binoculars and stared at the island. The towering trees and dunes and reef all seemed normal. So did the horizon. The one streak of cloud in the endless blue sky.

He rubbed under his sunglasses and lifted them to fit the super-powered field glasses more firmly to his face. She was still there, stroking across the lagoon. And it was still there too, powering along behind her. His breath caught hard in his chest.

Impossible.

But it sure as heck looked real enough, and out here, so far from everything … Who knew? He squinted in the mid-morning light, pressing the binoculars so hard to his face the rims bit into his cheekbones. Centuries of maritime mythology filled his mind. But she was no dugong and he was no sex-starved, nineteenth century sailor imagining a half-woman-half-fish in the distance.

Although you wouldn’t know it from the pace of his heart.

She neared land, her strokes steady and practised. The beach rose to meet her and then she stood …

… on two legs. Long, brown, bare legs, and she hauled a silver buoyancy sack out of the water behind her. Rob released his breath on a whoosh.

Mermaid? Idiot.

He let heat rise in his cheeks since no one was around to see him, and his heart pounded out the adrenalin surge of moments ago as he kept his focus locked on the shore. He’d caught a lot of sun out here on his latest vacation from reality but not that much, surely? Not enough to start seeing mermaids where there weren’t any. But a bikini-clad woman alone on a restricted island that was only inhabited by birds and crabs … How was that any less strange?

The old bloke who fuelled him up at the dock had muttered something about a spirit-woman living on Pulu Keeling. Some kind of guardian. He’d assumed he was talking about the mythical variety.

His mermaid tugged the buoyancy sack further onto the beach and then let it drop. Her lush, tanned body jerked in and out of his binocular frame along with the rolling ocean swell but he did his best to keep the glasses steady as she bent to check the contents of the sack she’d swum ashore. Those long legs that went forever did actually stop—at a tiny bit of yellow fabric covering a perfect peach which bobbed up and down as she rummaged through the sack on the sand.

His curiosity at what a two-legged mermaid was doing out here in the middle of the Indian Ocean took a momentary back seat to the sudden interest that surged through him. Ridiculous that he should be captivated by a bit of mermaid tail when he had any number of equivalents on speed-dial back home.

She straightened with her back to the glittering ocean and lifted her arms to wring the sea water from her long blonde hair. She twisted it into a damp rope and draped it over her right shoulder.

‘Turn around … turn around,’ Rob murmured, his breath hitching to a halt. Would his mythical mermaid have a face to match the lithe golden body? She didn’t turn, but she tugged the tethers up onto her left shoulder and dragged the sack behind her along the rocky beach towards a track in the dune grasses. Even with her heavy load, every movement was graceful. Her body radiated health and vitality. Rob’s heart thumped in his throat, his gut, as she moved towards the tree line.

Turn around.

At last she did, bending forward to pull the sack over the lip of the dune. He got a quick flash of tanned, toned arms and firm breasts behind more yellow triangles. Once the sack was up and over, she dropped it and straightened to catch her breath, leaving Rob staring through his binoculars at a honey-coloured midriff stretched upward by raised arms that she used to shield her eyes from the blazing sun. Eyes that—

He fumbled the binoculars, almost dropping them overboard.

—stared right back at him! He caught them in the nick of time and glanced back to the island where the now tiny woman waved one arm at him. Pretty keenly.

‘Yeah, I’ve seen you, honey,’ he murmured, discomfited at being caught staring but more than accustomed to the excitement of pretty females. He waved back casually.

She mirrored him, both arms this time, bouncing those yellow triangles around a treat.

Rob frowned again. ‘What?’

A sickening crunch accompanied a lurch that sent him staggering as The Player‘s stern hit the reef. It rocked again as the swell nudged his pride and joy against the protective coral surrounding Pulu Keeling.

‘Son of a …’

He shoved the throttle forward, yanking the wheel and powering the boat a safe distance from the barely exposed reef. As he swung her around, he noticed another silver buoyancy sack sitting on the reef in the distance, on the far side of the atoll where the swell did look less powerful. Had that just been delivered? He motored over using the sack as his marker and dropped anchor to arrest his drift. Moving to the injured side of the boat, he dropped his cap and sunglasses to the deck, slid his diving mask on and slipped into the deep water at the reef’s drop-off. His T-shirt ballooned as he sank into thick, icy silence.

Damn it.

Below his boat, he ran his hand over The Player‘s damaged hull where the hard coral had bitten into it. He’d need to dry-dock for at least three days to repair the steel properly. Not time he could afford with his schedule. But he wouldn’t sink, not if he could manage some basic repairs here. If he just went ashore …

He surged to the surface and filled his aching lungs with air, swimming round to the rear corner of the boat where The Player‘s chrome half-ladder dipped in and out of the sea with the motion of the swell. He hauled himself up into the boat.

‘I hope you’re planning on checking out the coral too?’ an angry voice snapped from behind.

Blinking in the glare, he reached for his sunglasses and turned in time to see his mermaid haul herself onto the smoothest part of the exposed reef. She stood, chest heaving from her swim, near-naked and dripping wet: his three favourite attributes in a woman.

Usually, his mind would have bubbled up a dozen witty comebacks, all tried-and-tested and proven to charm. But not one leapt to mind as Rob stared at the angry woman balancing on the reef nearby.

More specifically, at the brutal scars that stretched from her ear down to her right shoulder.

‘Well?’

Honor Brier was in no mood to be stared at, and certainly not by him. The man had just rammed the outer rim of the atoll—living reef that had formed, unmolested, over centuries. It thrived, ignored by most of mankind and free to grow abundantly, under the rubber booties that saved her feet from being grated like Cheddar on the reef. ‘That coral will still be repairing itself two decades after your boat has rusted away to iron-ash.’

He stared at her, trying very hard not to look at her shoulder, which only made it more obvious. She set her hands on her hips, fighting the urge to raise a self-conscious hand to her neck. ‘Do you speak or are you purely ornamental? ‘

That got his attention. The smile he flashed her then must have won dozens of hearts in its time—softer, less calloused hearts than hers. She turned official. ‘This is a protected area. You can’t be here without a permit and a guide.’

‘You’re here.’

The hairs on her neck prickled at his deep, silken voice. It was a crime that it should match the rest of him. ‘I have a permit.’

‘And a guide?’

Her tongue clucked in frustration. ‘I don’t need a guide; I work here.’

‘It wasn’t my intention to stop here. As you can see, I’ve encountered a bit of a setback.’

Honor cast her eye over the pile of equipment on the deck of his vessel. God knew how much more he had below. It explained what he was doing lurking around her island. ‘Are you out here diving?’

‘Why? Is the sea floor protected too?’

He probably thought he was being charming. ‘Parts of it are, yes. Inside Pulu Keeling waters. Why were you so close to the reef?’

‘I came in to see if I could spot the SMS Emden memorial. Then I was distracted by … uh … a bird.’

She shifted her weight. He was into birds? She hosted birding groups about twice a year. She glanced at his expensive field binoculars. It gave her pause. ‘A booby?’

He flashed those pearly whites again. ‘I believe it was—possibly a pair.’

Believe? Pulu Keeling was famous for its booby colonies. Three species. But surely he would know that if he was into …?

Oh.

Imbecile. Honor sighed and concentrated on not crossing her arms. Displeasure and impatience stained her voice. ‘Do you need a hand launching off? You must be eager to see the memorial. You’ll be able to spot it with binoculars from outside the reef.’

Time to go now.

‘Actually, I need to come ashore.’

‘Not going to happen. Not without a permit.’

‘The Player’s compromised. It wouldn’t be safe to set out without patching the breach.’

The Player—how very apt. The way he stroked the bright blue gunnel of his boat told her how important the vessel was to him. She knew all about men and their boats. ‘Then you’d better head back to Cocos—’

‘I’m coming in. If you want to stop me, knock yourself out. I’m not going to sea until I’ve made repairs.’ He crossed his arms, causing his sea-soaked T-shirt to mould to his broad chest. Honor retreated one pace. She couldn’t stop him, not if it truly wasn’t safe, but she’d never had cause to bring someone unauthorised onto the island in her many seasons on Pulu Keeling. She wasn’t certain what the procedure was.

‘So, are you sending me back out to drown or can I come ashore?’

She sucked in a breath at his choice of phrase and grabbed at the buoyancy sack to steady herself. He couldn’t know …

Her voice cracked slightly. ‘Suit yourself.’

‘Where can I enter the lagoon?’

‘You can’t.’ She fought to sound normal. ‘You’ll have to moor where you are.’

He scanned the lagoon. ‘Are you serious? What about the south side of the island?’

‘Everyone swims into Pulu Keeling. It’s an atoll, completely surrounded by coral reef. Why else would I be hauling all this stuff in by hand?’

Piles of technical equipment mounded in every spare inch of his boat. Honor wouldn’t risk leaving it all in a vessel with a damaged hull in the unpredictable weather of the Keeling Islands, and she knew he’d feel no different.

‘It’s not too late to change your mind, head for Cocos.’ Her tone was hopelessly optimistic.

‘No. I’ll come ashore. I have no choice.’

Neither do I, apparently.

They hardly spoke as they stripped The Player and Honor knew from his grumpy movements that she wasn’t the only one less than pleased with the circumstances they’d found themselves in. Then the sheer hard work of towing load after load of expensive equipment across the lagoon literally took her breath away, making conversation impossible.

He passed items to her one by one and she stacked each one along with her buoyancy sack into The Player‘s inflatable dinghy, which bobbed in the protected lagoon. Some pieces were heavier than others, but she managed every one without complaint. Pretty Boy sealed the cabin, dropped the weather shields, started the engine one final time and motored a few metres away from the reef where he could safely drop anchor.

Honor waited while he added his spare anchor to the first he’d dropped and then he dived headlong into the frigid depths and swam towards her. The razor edge of the dropoff threatened, but on his second attempt those powerful arms pushed him up and over into the lagoon, guiding the inflatable from behind towards the beach. The water was warmer and gentler on the island side of the reef-break, and teemed with brightly coloured fish enjoying the protection the coral band afforded. They darted, kamikaze-like, around the giant two-legged predator who’d appeared in their midst nudging the dinghy to shore.

Honor’s weary muscles pressed her along, closer to the island, and then she stood in the calf-deep splash waiting for him, breathing deeply. They couldn’t drag the inflatable far onto the shingle beach; the rocks threatened to shred it in moments. It rested instead on the fine-ground sand closer to the waterline.

Her unwanted guest emerged from the small surf, his saturated clothes glued to every muscled plane. ‘I’ve got it. Take a break.’

Nothing he could have said would have moved her sooner. She dropped the tow rope and bent for one of the parcels in the little boat, trying to disguise her puffing. ‘I’m fine. What is all this stuff, anyway?’

‘Recovery gear, mostly. Photographic equipment, sonar, GPS.’

That stopped her in her tracks.

‘You’re a raider?’ She intentionally used the derogatory term for a salvager. She watched him closely for a reaction.

Lord, what will I do if he is? They were a long way from the Cocos cluster’s five-strong police presence.

His face tightened. ‘I’m a maritime archaeologist.’

‘What’s the difference?’

One dark brow shot up. ‘The difference is,’ he grumbled as they lugged gear from the inflatable up above the high water mark, ‘one is sanctioned by the Australian Government, in accordance with the Historic Shipwrecks Act. The other is naked theft.’

‘You’re a shipwreck hunter?’

He smiled, bright and glorious. ‘I’m a shipwreck finder.’

She studied him, her eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t look like an archaeologist.’ And he really, really didn’t. He looked like something from an underwear commercial.

‘You don’t look like a dugong.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Nothing.’ He grinned and thrust out a sandy hand. ‘Robert Dalton. Rob, to my friends.’

She took it, nodding her greeting. ‘Robert.’ His smile twisted slightly. ‘I’m Honor Brier.’

‘And what are you doing all the way out here, Honor Brier? Pretty much the last place I expected to see a woman.’

‘Because of an old Malay myth that says women can’t be on this island?’

‘No. Because it’s supposed to be uninhabited.’

‘I live here eight months of the year. I oversee the turtle nesting and audit the booby colonies.’

He didn’t so much as smile at the word this time; she had to give him a bonus point for fast learning. He dumped the final box on the dune top.

‘You live here for eight months? On an island with no fresh water and no services?’ And no people. He didn’t need to say it; he wasn’t the first one to point that out to her. She shrugged.

He looked at her as if she was a little bit crazy; with no clue how close to the truth that was. ‘What do you do?’

She spoke more slowly, wondering if he’d spent so long in the looks queue at birth they might have been out of stock over in the brains department. She grabbed her side of the inflatable. ‘I supervise the nesting and audit …’

‘The boobies, I know. I meant what else do you do, to pass the time?’ He stepped to the edge of the dinghy. ‘One, two three … lift.’

They shuffled up the sand, carrying the empty inflatable over the many rocks littering the shore above the high-tide mark.

‘Nothing else—that’s it. It’s my job.’

He stared at her. ‘Alone?’

‘Yep.’ Until now.

He whistled. ‘Who’d you tick off?’

Her mouth dropped open. ‘No one! I choose to come here—I love it.’ And it was the closest point on the planet to—

She caught herself before even thinking about them in this jerk’s presence and dumped her side of the inflatable.

He cringed as it bounced on the rocks. ‘Hey, hey—’

Adonis or not, he’d be repairing a puncture, too, if he didn’t watch what he said. ‘Your stuff should be fine here until tomorrow. There are no storms forecast … tonight.’ She threw the dismissal over her shoulder, marched to where the second buoyancy sack waited by the water’s edge, hauled it over her shoulder and staggered up the beach with as much dignity as she could on the caving sand.

She turned back and saw him looking at the thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment sitting exposed on her shore. Then he grimaced and followed her as she turned up an almost unrecognisable track between the thick coconut palms fringing the dunes.

Honor shifted from foot to foot. She’d never intended anyone to see her little campsite and now a complete stranger stood in the midst of her ‘stuff'.

Two seasons ago she’d lined the little track leading from the beach with seashells so it formed a sweet pathway to camp. She’d splashed out on a designer fly-sheet for the tent—one with Van Gogh’s Sunflowers screen-printed on it—and although it did look rather odd in the middle of the tropical wilderness, the touch of whimsy pleased her. She’d even thought about planting some ground cover to help bind the fine white sand that found its way into everything, but decided against it. Pulu Keeling may well have been Australia’s smallest National Park, but it was still protected by the same regulations and restrictions afforded to the biggest mainland parks. Making a homely garden was a big conservation no-no.

So she just lived with the sand. Everywhere.

Rob gazed about him with a kind of fascination as he trailed her up from the shore. This island was her home-away-from-home, her sanctuary, and he’d been rudely dismissive of it, as though it wasn’t a rare piece of paradise with lush trees, crystalline waters and masses of wildlife.

Don’t you dare say one word. Not a word.

‘This looks pretty comfortable,’ he said in total defiance of her thought projection.

Suspicion stained the compliment. ‘Everything I need is here.’

It was true. Tent, field equipment, first aid, emergency flares, books, laptop, batteries, radio, fuelled-up generator, provisions and a mountain of ten-litre water tubs full of fresh water. Each in its designated place and each swum in across the lagoon at the beginning of every monitoring season. And swum back out empty at the end.

When he reached the edge of the campsite, he turned back to admire the view she’d been staring at for four years. Coconut trees bowed towards each other and formed a perfect picture frame for the sparkling ocean beyond the lagoon. The thirty-foot pisonia forest overhead offered protection from the worst of the weather and shade from the blazing equatorial sun.

He was silhouetted against the bright day outside the trees and Honor fought to ignore how solid and fit he looked with her lagoon as a backdrop, the wet T-shirt still clinging to his muscular back. His legs were long, contoured and as tanned as the rest of him. He was tall and lean with surfer’s shoulders. All of him was toned—sculpted but not muscle-bound. She imagined the kind of precise gym-work that went into keeping him in such balanced shape and assumed there were two personal trainers on standby somewhere awaiting his return to the mainland.

Female, no doubt.

He shifted his weight and stretched out a crick in that broad back and Honor wondered if she’d ever feel the same about her view again—or her island.

She frowned. Where had that come from? Not her brain, certainly. One man spending five minutes on Pulu Keeling was not going to undo the wonder and beauty of her safe haven for ever. It was the disturbance. It had thrown her normal rhythm.

She watched him soak up the view, his hands on his hips, body not quite relaxed. For a man who looked as if he was born in the surf, he didn’t seem particularly comfortable standing in front of one of the most beautiful beaches on the planet.

What’s he waiting for—a bellhop?

Her lips tightened. ‘Well, come on in.’

He swung around and moved out of the deep shade into the dappled light of her campsite, sliding his sunglasses up onto his damp dark hair. Honor’s heart tripped over itself, and she glanced away lest she be caught staring.

His eyes were the same vivid blue as her view.

She scurried towards her tent, willing the heart that had lurched into a frantic flutter to settle. Had everything shrunk the moment he stepped into camp? She grabbed a long-sleeved cotton shirt and hastily slipped it on over her swimsuit.

‘Eight months …’ she heard him mutter.

Her chin lifted. ‘How long do you think it will take you to make repairs?’ The question was ruder than she’d intended. It practically screamed, Get off my island!

He didn’t miss the tone; his lips thinned and those amazing eyes darkened. ‘No idea. I’ll have to assess the damage.’

‘What can I do to help?’ She’d meant it to be conciliatory.

‘In a hurry to have me gone, Honor?’

Shame bit as those all-knowing eyes saw exactly which way her mind was going. ‘No. It’s just … I’m not set up for visitors.’ It was true, yet not entirely the truth.

‘I’ll do my best to stay out of your way.’ His nostrils flared briefly.

Robert Dalton had a decent poker face, an admirable life skill. The aggravated pulse high in his jaw was the only other sign that she’d ticked him off. Her own face was an open book.

‘It’s okay.’ She reached for her trusty logbook. ‘I have work to do, anyway. Make yourself at home.’

It half killed her to say it.

His smile couldn’t have been less genuine. Was it so unthinkable that a person could feel at home in her little base? Even a person whose sunglasses probably cost more than her whole camp set-up? Not waiting for his answer, she snatched up her binoculars and marched towards the trees.

Rob watched her go and then looked around again. Making himself at home felt plain wrong. This camp, with its sweet little homely touches, was so private and feminine. He felt every bit the intruder. He sighed and headed back to the beach, peeling his adhesive T-shirt from his body as he went and looking around for a sun-bleached bush to drape it on. He turned back out to the horizon and waded into the water, heading for the boat that he’d bought with the first money he’d ever earned himself.

Minutes later, under the full glare of the equatorial sun, he yanked his dive mask down harder than necessary and snapped it into place, then readied himself on the edge of The Player.

What’s her problem, anyway? His just being here obviously irritated the heck out of her. Everything he did she took exception to and he’d been here all of one hour. That had to be some kind of record. Not that she’d been entirely rude. She’d been a sport about hauling all his gear onshore, and she’d tried to make nice towards the end.

Although it obviously didn’t come as second nature to her.

Rob smiled. Honor Brier certainly was different to the women he knew. They liked having him around, they even sought him out. Actively. He wasn’t used to feeling plain unwelcome or to a woman being so … transparent and open. Honor had no interest in playing up to him or in putting on an act. She wanted him gone and was being perfectly upfront about it. It made a refreshing change from the gratuitous fawning he endured back home. Not to say it didn’t sting a bit, this feeling of not being quite good enough. But it was undeniably honest.

And unexpectedly welcome.

Robert Dalton Senior would have bawled him out for an hour for valuing character over charisma. His father’s idea of the perfect relationship was one in which everyone revolved around him like planets orbiting a star. And God knew he’d tried to raise his son in his image.

With a well-practised manoeuvre, Rob dropped over the boat’s side, diving once again into the cold waters of the Cocos Trench. Seven and a half thousand metres at its deepest point and here was he, nothing more than an amoeba splashing around right at its highest. Where the ocean bottom broke the surface and became land. This century, anyway. The shoreline on remote islands was as changeable as their sovereignty. Two hundred years belonging to Ceylon. One hundred as Britain’s. Fifty as Australia’s. Next century maybe Indonesia would get its turn. If there was anything left to claim sovereignty over. Cocos and everything on it would be underwater with his shipwrecks the way the sea levels were heading. Nothing was for ever.

Isn’t that the truth.

Rob shook his head. The earth had a way of giving back to itself. Ore ripped deep from its guts became metal. Metal became a ship. A ship became a shipwreck. A wreck became reef and a reef eventually compounded and silted up to become earth again. Oceans rose and retreated, froze over and defrosted and finally retreated enough to push the island-that-once-was-reef-that-once-was-a-shipwreck up above the surface where who knew what life would evolve on it.

His life—with all its dramas—took place in ultra fast-forward by comparison and had no bearing whatsoever on what the rest of the planet did. That thought had a way of keeping a guy humble. Keeping a guy from being too much like his father.

Despite that father’s best efforts.

The water kissed his bare skin as he sank below to assess the damage. The sun had shifted to the other side of the boat slightly, changing the light and making the fracture easier to see. He ran his hand over the hairline crack in the hull, got a feel for the injury. Angry bubbles raced him to the surface. He’d need an oxy-welder and he knew without looking that there wasn’t one amongst the mountain of equipment he’d brought on this short voyage. And he was pretty sure it wasn’t something a pretty female hermit generally kept handy.

He surfaced and climbed back into the boat, his heart heavy. The Player hadn’t taken on water yet—as far as he could see—but, given time and the relentless pounding of the ocean, that could change. It was too risky to take her back out to sea without repairs, even heading for Cocos’ Home Island. He’d have to wait for equipment or a ship to shepherd him back to dry port. Ideally, both.

Looks like this field trip just got extended.

Honor had to have a radio in camp. He hoped he could use it to contact the maritime authority to communicate his predicament.

Anger at his own stupidity made him careless as he swam back to shore, and he rushed his first attempt at boosting onto the reef. Sharp coral shards lacerated his exposed belly in several places. He fell back into the deep water of the drop-off, waited for the swell and used nature’s hoist to push himself onto the reef. The mix of saltwater and fresh air stung like crazy in the welts already forming on his stomach but he’d endured worse.

Not as bad as Honor, his mind reminded him as he dived into the calmer lagoon and stroked carefully across, tugging on the fresh wounds with each muscle flex. Her scars. He was no expert, but the damage didn’t look like burn marks. The skin wasn’t puckered enough. It was more like … patchwork. As if someone had done some kind of Frankenstein number on her.

He frowned. That wasn’t a kind comparison. There was nothing monster-like about Honor. Something very nasty had happened to his little mermaid and not too long ago. The scars still bore the red-edged look of a new injury. How much of her brittleness was caused by her damaged flesh? Maybe they still caused her pain.

His chest tightened. How much pain?

She may be hard work but she was still a human being. And though their lives took place in fast-forward by continental drift standards, they still had to live them. And living with pain was not something he’d wish on anyone.

No matter how ornery they were.

Back in camp, with his T-shirt back on, he spotted the radio immediately. Honor had been in such a flurry to get out of his presence she hadn’t taken it with her. Lucky for him. He grabbed it up and checked the frequency. It was preset to the emergency channel. Not that bumping into a tropical island full of supplies qualified as an emergency, but it was a notifiable event.

‘AMSA Base Broome, this is primary vessel VKB290. Over.’

He waited, then repeated his call to the maritime safety authority in Australia’s far north-west. Indonesia’s capital city, Jakarta, was technically closer but it was Australia who had the last word on who went where in these particular waters.

If they said go, he’d go. If they said stay.

Rob’s eyes trailed around the tiny camp. If they said stay, he’d argue with them.

A lot.

Broome answered and they both switched to a free channel, leaving the emergency frequency uncluttered. With the practice of years and in as few words as possible, Rob communicated his location, damage and condition.

Base were straight back. ‘Are you aware that’s a restricted area, VKB? Over.’

Thanks to Honor. ‘I didn’t have much alternative.’

There was a pause and Rob waited for instructions. ‘Our log shows there’s a researcher from Parks Australia based at Pulu Keeling currently with full supplies, VKB. Recommend you make contact over.’

Rob had a sudden flash of Honor standing on the reef, all dripping and fired up, those self-righteous fists planted firmly on her curvy hips.

He smiled. ‘Roger, Base. Contact established.’

‘Standby, VKB …’

More silence. Rob held his breath.

The radio crackled back to life. ‘VKB, we have a Priority One oil rig situation about eight hundred clicks to your north. All available services will be tied up on that for a few days. Suggest you stay put. Over.’

Rob closed his eyes and cursed, his finger hovering over the transmit button. This was where Robert Dalton Senior would play the son, do you know who I am? card. Make a scene. Have some kind of evac chopper sent out for him, especially. He wouldn’t think twice to throw his weight or his wallet around, even with guys with the security of Australia’s massive coastline on their shoulders.

Moments like this were prime opportunities for Rob to prove how not like his father he was.

But then he looked around again at the tiny camp and imagined himself and Honor trying to avoid each other for days on end. She’d made it pretty clear what she thought of him and his job. If he wanted that kind of judgement, he could have stayed home.

He swore again, pressed ‘transmit’ and played the only card he had. Academia. ‘That’s a negative, Base. I have a museum posting to be at and an important paper to deliver—’ he cringed at how much of a poser he sounded ‘—people who’ll miss me. Request alternative.

Over.’

He let the button go and shook his head. He sounded exactly like his father …

Not surprisingly, the operator’s friendly voice was decidedly chilly when it finally returned. ‘VKB, that suggestion just got upgraded to an instruction. Remain in your present location and await further instruction. We’ll make the necessary advice to your family. Repeat, do not move off that island until instructed. Over.’

And that was what you got for being a moron.

Rob’s gut tightened. These guys held his boating and salvage licences in their hands. Neither things he wanted to mess with. ‘Estimated time for assistance, Base?’

The log shows regular deliveries to your Parks Australia contact,’ the voice said. ‘Find a nice patch of beach to study, Professor. Looks like you’re on vacation. Over and out.’




CHAPTER TWO


‘TELL me you’re kidding.’

Honor stood, notebook in hand, by the edge of the camp clearing staring in open-mouthed horror at him.

Rob struggled not to smile. ‘When’s the next supply drop?’ he asked calmly.

‘It came this morning! Can’t they come for you any sooner?’ Her voice had a slightly hysterical note to it and his smile broke loose.

‘What’s funny?’

‘You are. You’d think I was Jack the Ripper the way you’re carrying on. When’s the supply boat due back?’

‘Ten days. More than a week!’

‘But less than a month.’ Hi, I’m Rob Dalton and I’m an eternal optimist. He took a deep breath and sobered. Ten days. That meant two things. One—he was going to have to find a way to live with this woman for ten long days until the supply boat could bring him the equipment he needed to weld-repair his hull. And two—he was going to miss Tuesday’s meeting at Dalton family headquarters. Robert Senior was not going to be happy.

Honor didn’t look much happier. What she did look, he realised, was completely gorgeous. Her wheat-blonde hair had almost dried and hung in loose segments around her face, showing off fantastic bone structure he’d not seen since an unexpected detour on a European holiday had dumped him in Iceland. Escaped from its ponytail, her locks draped over her damaged shoulder in a way that almost made him forget the patchwork damage beneath it.

Almost.

Women at home would pay hundreds of dollars to achieve that just-bedded look, but she stood there in her yellow bikini, a sheer blue shirt tossed casually over it, entirely clean-skinned and with laceless tennis shoes, looking as if she’d stepped straight off the pages of a magazine.

A much classier one than he was used to looking at.

She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d seen—Lord knew he’d met some absolute stunners in his time and dated half of them— but she easily took the award for the most naturally attractive. Healthy, toned and tanned with bright, clear eyes and perfect teeth. He had to guess at that last one. It saddened him to realise he had yet to see her smile, but she must because he could see life lines etched into the corners of eyes that somehow reflected the green of the trees above them and the blue of the ocean at the same time. Right next to the lingering sadness that permanently shadowed her gaze.

His usual type was younger and leaner and a good deal more manicured than the curvy, windswept woman standing before him, yet he recognised in himself the unmistakable echo of sexual appreciation.

Interesting. He moved his mind to something less evocative before he gave himself away. Her scars …

‘Ten days!’ Honor crossed towards him purposefully. ‘You can’t stay here ten days.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because …’

Her mouth opened and closed like an angry little fish. He rather enjoyed the flush of pink that streaked up along her cheekbones.

‘I … You just can’t. I have work to do!’

He ignored that, determined not to have this argument. He had no intention of staying anywhere ten days if he could think of an alternative, but when he left it would be on his terms, not hers. He was belligerent enough to stay for the duration just to prove the point. He turned and walked towards her tent.

‘Can I borrow your first aid kit?’

Honor watched him tug his T-shirt up with his left arm and toss it onto the nearby chair. She’d got a good idea of the strength and breadth of his shoulders and back when he’d hauled himself up the boat ladder earlier, but seeing it in the flesh—very tanned flesh—threatened to steal the words right out of her mouth. She forced her mind to focus and stepped closer to tell him exactly what he could do with the first aid kit …

Then he turned around.

She clamped her mouth shut and stared, transfixed, at a tiny dumb-bell bisecting one perfect pink nipple on one perfectly formed male pectoral muscle. Her mouth dried and failed to function further.

God help me!

She’d fantasised for years about a man with a nipple piercing. Someone wilder and more assured than any man she’d ever known. Like some kind of dream manifestation of a part of herself she never revealed. Or acknowledged. A delusion she kept safely bottled down deep inside where it belonged.

Great—this just completed the nightmare.

‘Honor?’

She forced her focus back to his and then followed his glance down to his navel where nasty abrasions marred his perfect skin. ‘Oh, God!’

She immediately stepped closer, appalled to see the damage. She caught herself just short of touching him, knowing his stomach would be rock-hard and feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. Then she berated herself. He’s injured …

She forced herself to be practical, exploring the worst of the wounds with two careful fingers and ignoring the little metal dumb-bell that glinted so close in her periphery.

‘Not too deep, but we need to get something on it.’ She raced for her first aid kit and started babbling as he followed her, closer to the tent. ‘Saltwater’s the best thing for it. Make sure you soak it regularly, then dry it off well. A bit of sun can’t hurt either, for good measure. But we’ll have to disinfect it first …’

She turned back to him with a large tube of disinfectant cream, some Betadine wipes, a roll of tape and an acre of gauze padding.

‘This is going to sting, isn’t it? ‘ His voice was tight.

‘I’m sure you can take it.’

‘I think I’d better sit down.’

She looked up at him. He’s serious, she suddenly realised. ‘It’s just abrasion—’

‘Too late.’

He glanced down to his abs, where the blood prickled through in the places her fingers had explored, then he staggered towards the camp chair, the colour draining from his face. ‘Not good with blood.’

He sank onto the canvas chair, breathing deeply, his chest rising and falling like the swell of the ocean. Controlled breathing— Honor recognised the signs at once—she’d done it enough in the last four years to call herself a master. She crouched in front of him and rested back on her heels, her eyes steady on his, waiting for his anxiety to pass.

She disliked him a little bit less.

Finally, he blew out a steady breath and half smiled. She matched him, trying to be supportive.

‘Is that what I have to do to get a smile out of you?’ he said at last, laughing shakily. ‘Unman myself?’

Hardly. Fortunately, her snort was only internal. Showing vulnerability only made her more aware of him as a man. He was being intentionally flippant, but she sensed his embarrassment was genuine. Funny how she could already read him after less than a day.

‘It’s a common enough reaction to blood.’ She hoped he’d sense her understanding, recognise there would be no ridicule here. She was absolutely the last one to laugh at someone else’s neuroses. ‘Or maybe you’re experiencing delayed shock from hitting the reef?’

‘No, it’s the blood. Something I’ve done since I was a kid.’

After a moment more of deep breathing, he nodded and sat up straighter and Honor kneeled up towards his stomach, scooting forward between his legs to apply the first aid.

He straightened in the chair and pressed his lips together at the discomfort of stretching the wounds. Honor peeled open one of the iodine swabs and leaned in close. She mopped around the wound first, determined to clean off the blood so he didn’t have to look at it. Eventually, she had to wipe over the abrasions and knew it would sting. His left leg bounced fast but he didn’t make a sound. She dabbed as gently as she could, across each scrape and scratch, dousing the area in super germkiller.

His groan brought her eyes up to his and stilled her hands. ‘I’m sorry. It’s almost over. Coral’s full of micro-organisms that you really don’t want in your bloodstream.’

His attempt at a return smile was more of a pained grimace and she stifled a laugh. He was trying very hard to be stoical. Then his eyes strayed from hers, down over her scars to where her barely covered breasts hung level with his belly. She became suddenly and vividly aware that she was kneeling—virtually in her underwear—between the splayed legs of a man she’d only just met.

Instinct yelled move but pride kept her still, despite the furious hammering of her heart. It startled her to feel a prickle of awareness, for her fingers to tingle at the silky-hard smoothness of his muscled belly. The sensations were as foreign as that scent he had. She’d forgotten how a natural man smelled. Her heightened awareness made her movements a little rougher, more rushed. She opened some alcohol wipes and swabbed off the dark rust-coloured iodine stain from around the wound. She needed the area clean and dry for the surgical tape to stick. He didn’t move as her hands skimmed proficiently over his abdomen with the sterile pad.

Her heart thumped steadily. The alcohol was taking longer to evaporate in the humid tropical air and she was desperate to get out from between his legs, convinced that she could feel the heat radiating off his thighs. She fanned the wound with the spare packets of wipes, with little effect. Gritting her teeth, she bent in to blow the damp area dry.

‘Okay!’ Rob lurched up out of the seat and stumbled backwards, knocking the chair on its side. Honor fell back onto her heels to avoid his rushed departure. ‘I think I’m good. I can do the rest.’

‘But I need to—’

‘Really—I can put on the cream and the gauze. Thanks for cleaning it up for me.’

She returned to her feet, holding the first aid items out to him. Was he blushing? A bit more of her reserve slipped. If a man’s legs went to jelly at the sight of blood and he could still blush, how bad could he be? Then she remembered the way he’d been checking out her cleavage—her scars—and her back straightened. She handed him the first aid supplies.

He took them without quite meeting her eyes. But his voice was conciliatory. ‘Thanks. You’d make a good mother.’

Air sucked into Honor’s lungs sharply. It was just words. She knew it. Something to say in an awkward moment, but she wasn’t ready for the boot in the guts the words triggered.

She stumbled back as though physically wounded and forced a tight smile to her face. ‘I have work to do. I’ll leave you to finish up.’

Fix yourself up and go.

Without looking back, she beat a hasty retreat, snatched up her logbook and marched past him back into the trees.




CHAPTER THREE


‘Shh!’

Honor could have heard him approaching during a monsoon. She looked back over her shoulder at him, irritated. Again. Robert Dalton certainly didn’t bring out the best in her.

He slowed his approach, tiptoeing towards her hiding spot and crawled to lie next to her in the sparse scrub, taking care not to rub his patched up stomach on anything sharper than the island sand. Did he think he was well disguised now—all six foot three of him squashed behind a straggly young octopus bush?

Mainlanders. Gotta love them.

He lay by her side, glancing between her and the logbook, where she had recorded a series of numbers and unintelligible scribble that was meaningful only to her. Every time those blue eyes lifted, he looked more and more like he was itching to speak. Finally, the silence got too much for him.

‘What are you doing?’

Even his whisper seemed loud. A frigate-bird broke from its cover a few metres away, lurching into the sky, its enormous wingspan carrying the ungainly giant away in seconds. She shot him an annoyed look. He flashed a sexy, superficial smile. Fully expecting that to make a difference.

‘I bet that gets results wherever you go.’ Her own voice was hushed. He didn’t pretend to misunderstand, just grinned in agreement, this time more genuine, and studied her the way she was studying the birds. His question still hung between them, unanswered.

‘I’m monitoring the flocks,’ she belatedly said.

He looked in the direction of her gaze and his eyes widened. Had he seriously not noticed it? The only other archaeologist she knew— used to know—spent most of her professional life in the bowels of the museum dusting things that other people dug up, spending most of her day staring at two square inches of artefact. Rob’s tan was too perfect and those muscles too manicured for him to spend all his time in a lab, but how else could she explain how he’d missed the massive inland lagoon that comprised half the island as he’d come towards her. Salt-crusted, sheltered and writhing with birdlife, at first glance the surface of the water and the trees on the lagoon edge seemed white with foam when in fact they were covered with the glaring white of hundreds of feathered terns, boobies and noddies. She passed Rob her binoculars. He ranged his eyes over the lake and its myriad inhabitants. ‘Whoa.’

Thirty-something going on sixteen.

En masse it was quite a spectacle. Honor smiled and let him look. At peak season, these protected waters could support twenty thousand birds. Most used Pulu Keeling as a base, striking out to fish the rich waters of the Cocos Trench, then returning to nests and chicks and shelter. Even the giant frigatebirds, who generally ate and slept high above the planet on the currents of the trade winds, rested, recuperated and romanced here on the island. They were born here and instinct brought them back every two years to breed. It was, quite literally, their sanctuary.

‘And here I was thinking how quiet it is here …’

Honor looked at him strangely. ‘Quiet? No, listen.’

All around them echoed the sounds of contented birds. Occasionally, a particular voice rose in squabble or seduction but otherwise the noise blended into a low drone which underpinned the perpetual sounds of the waves crashing on the outer reef and then washing on and off the shell-covered shoreline of the island with high-pitched tinkling. She pointed off to the right where she could hear the high, creaky ack-ack sound of a buff-banded rail roosting contentedly. She saw the moment Rob heard it too, his tiny smile of recognition. Then she tuned her ears the other way, tipping her head slightly and he followed suit. She could hear a rhythmic, throaty chuckle off in the distance and she tapped her finger in the sand in time, to help him focus in on the distinctive call of a fairy tern. His eyes drifted shut.

‘In front, the pew-pew-pew sound. In perfect time with the waves …’ she whispered.

His head tipped like a satellite dish, listening now for the ocean in the distance. It stretched his jaw to a perfect stubbly angle and Honor had a sudden urge to touch it. Relaxed like it was, his handsome face was less designer angles and more … appealing. More human. He was enjoying this.

She ripped her eyes away.

‘A thousand different sounds are out there for the listening. It’s anything but quiet.’

Their faces were quite close now and he opened his eyes to look sideways into hers, naked speculation in his gaze. Honor caught her breath. I bet that gets results every time, too. Then, as though drawn by magnetism, his eyes strayed down to her scars and then shot back up again. She sighed.

It would be ever thus. She wasn’t angry or offended; a tiny bit disappointed, perhaps. She knew how the scars looked, what they meant and why she wore them—almost as a badge of honour. No man’s awkward stare was going to undo what they meant to her.

‘So, how far is the Emden memorial from here?’

She’d almost forgotten what had brought him to the island in the first place. ‘Uh … Over that way, I think a couple of hundred metres?’

He looked appalled. ‘Haven’t you seen it?’

She wasn’t much for manmade history, hadn’t paid the marker very much attention in four years. ‘Sure. It’s not far from the turtle nests.’

He craned upwards, towards the direction she’d indicated and his eyes glittered. ‘Show me?’

They were such simple words, but so eagerly uttered. His excitement was infectious. How long had it been since she got excited about anything? Four years? Longer? She nodded and started to crawl backwards, away from the birds. He copied, reverse commando crawling into the cover of trees. He definitely looked better doing it than she did.

Five minutes had them emerging on the beach on the far side of the tiny island. Honor turned left and wandered along a shoreline more pristine than the northern one—impossibly so—but the lagoon on this side was shallower, electric-blue and mesmerising.

Rob stared out to sea where the Emden must have once listed on the outer reef. Weathered timbers grew out of the sand up ahead and Honor touched him on the arm and nodded in their direction. He followed her gaze then, almost reverently, moved towards the memorial. She approached, more respectfully, catching some of his awe.

This is special to him.

There it stood in all its simplicity, two uprights and a cross timber engraved with the words SMS EMDEN. At its base, the green-tinged remains of some metal part of the vessel. To Honor it looked like sea rubbish, but she could see it meant something very different to Rob. He squatted and ran a feather-light hand over the corroded green surface, his fingers dancing over every contour as though it were Braille. She tore her eyes away, overwhelmed by a sudden image of those long graceful fingers learning the shapes of her own flesh.

Her pulse surged.

‘What happened here?’ She knew the basics but wanted to hear him tell it—desperately wanted to put things back on a surer footing— and nothing slowed her pulse quite as much as military history.

‘During the First World War, Australia’s HMAS Sydney responded to a distress call from Direction Island. The Cocos cluster was a strategic communications base because of its proximity between Indonesia and Australia. When the Sydney arrived, she encountered the German SMS Emden sitting offshore readying an attack.’

He moved around the memorial, checking out every angle. As though it were more than just a couple of whacked together timbers. A whole lot more. His blue eyes glowed vibrantly and Honor found herself focusing more on that than on the artefacts around them. His large hands got in on the act, waving in space, painting an imaginary scene, independent of the man telling the story. They became the punctuation for his hypnotic voice.

‘The Emden was a beast of a machine, even though she was a light cruiser. She’d scuttled hundreds of enemy vessels in her time. Then she just disappeared from known waters until she turned up here, right on Australia’s doorstep.’

The first flash of interest in the wreck she’d ignored for four years sparked through her. She had no ear for maritime history but found herself completely captivated by his low, engaging voice. Did he know what a magical storyteller he was?

‘It was a short, brutal battle and Emden’s captain ran his own ship hard onto the reef to avoid it being captured by the enemy.’

Honor got the distinct feeling he’d forgotten she was even there, was telling the story for himself. He stared out to the reef, where the massive battleship must have run aground a century before. As he did, she imagined a shimmer on the horizon where the giant grey behemoth would have rocked dangerously on the edge of the precious atoll.

Oh, the coral, a tiny voice despaired. ‘What happened to the crew?’

‘Most died in the fire-fight with the Sydney. Some in the grounding, some were captured by the Australians, but some.’ he turned and looked at the tropical paradise behind him ‘… some escaped capture and hid on the island, only to die of thirst because of the absence of fresh water. Their skeletons were found a year later, picked clean by the robber crabs.’

Well, that explained something. Honor nodded up the beach. ‘The Malay word for that bend up there means “bosun’s grave”.’

Rob turned and stared at the point where the shore disappeared around a bend. Ghosts of memory fairly flew around them.

Finally Honor broke the silence. ‘And the Emden?’

‘Just beyond the reef.’ He flicked his chin towards the flawless, rich blue ocean—so blue it seemed to become the sky somewhere off in the vast distance. ‘The Cocos people stripped her of anything they could use before she perished.’

‘She rusted away?’

‘She broke up and sank. She’s half reef herself now.’ He turned his eyes back to hers. ‘The coral got its revenge, ultimately.’

She smiled at his poeticism. ‘It always does.’

His eyes dropped to her smile briefly before turning back out to sea. Out to where she’d first seen him bobbing in his boat earlier today. Only a day? Why did it feel so much longer? They stood in silence and Honor let Rob have his thoughts. The sinking sun cast rich golden light over his tanned features, highlighting a straight nose and the symmetrical ridges of his cheekbones. She was suddenly inclined to draw out the experience, but the last place she wanted to be as the fiery sun set on the horizon was standing on a tropical island with this … sea-god. There were just some fates you didn’t tempt. The glib charmer he’d treated her to so far today might not currently be present, but he probably wasn’t far away. He was just lost at sea in the glassy expression of Robert Dalton’s blue eyes.

The thought bred a tiny chill and she curled her arms across her torso. A handful of the Emden crew may have been lucky enough to be plucked alive from the cruel waters of the Cocos Trench but the dark ocean was not always so merciful. Not everyone was given a second chance out there.

Not everyone who got one wanted it. As the men who scrabbled ashore from the Emden discovered.

‘We should get back.’ Honor’s stiff tone brought the more familiar glaze to his features as he turned back to her. She instantly missed the passion she’d briefly seen there but was incapable of chasing off the shadows that suddenly surrounded her.

He cast his eyes back out to the reef one last time and then followed her quietly back into the trees.

Rob tossed and turned in The Player’s comfortable cabin for hours. He told himself it was because he was nervous that his boat would sink out from under him and not because he kept reliving flashes of the curve of Honor’s cheek or the smell of her ocean-washed hair. Or the seductive length of her tanned thigh.

But, last time he checked, certain death didn’t harden his body so he had to assume it was the woman and not the threat of sinking to Davy Jones’s locker that was keeping him awake. Either way, the result was the same.

He was going ashore.

He sat up on the bunk and twisted sideways, well practised at not slamming his head on the low ceiling of The Player’s cabin. He’d spent many a night onboard at sea or in dock but he’d never brought anyone back to this cabin with him—real or otherwise. Honor, albeit in imaginary form, was the first woman to set foot inside this space.

Damn her! His haven felt vaguely violated.

Moonlight trailed a sparkling path over rolling ocean all the way to the horizon. Like the yellow brick road leading to Oz, except straight and sure. It occurred to him that, from the moon’s perspective, the golden pathway led straight to this island and to the golden woman inhabiting it. He turned towards shore and visualised her sleeping beneath her giant sunflower tent. Maybe he’d get to watch her sleep for a while. That wasn’t too creepy.

Was it?

He smiled and slipped into the drop-off, sucking in an agonised breath as the icy swell rushed into his board shorts. He was conscious, too, that sharks were always more active around reefs at night. The two effectively combined to put an end to any pleasurable sensations lingering.

In record time, he launched onto the reef and over into the protected lagoon. Nothing dangerous there, but he swam in swiftly nonetheless and emerged dripping on the sand. He’d done this trip enough times now to be able to spot the break in the trees along the shoreline that led to the campsite, even in the moonlight. It took no time to get closer.

He passed through trees bowing under the weight of roosting birds, moving softly so as not to disturb them, failing once or twice to the grumpy protests of a number of bigger birds.

Then he saw the clearing ahead and eased his steps. If Honor was sleeping, the last thing he wanted to do was frighten her. He’d settle down in the camp chair and wait out the couple of hours until dawn.

Her little tent was, technically, big enough for two but he was certain she wouldn’t be in a hurry to share it with someone she’d just met, man or woman. And certainly not uninvited. Thinking about his reclusive mermaid stretched out all warm and sleepy got his imagination whirring.

You’re a pervert, Dalton. It wasn’t the first time he’d had that conversation with himself since arriving on the island.

As he stepped closer to camp, movement drew his attention down to one corner, near the tree line on the far side. He glanced at his watch. Quarter to three. Clearly, Honor couldn’t sleep any more than he could. She crossed the moon-dappled space towards the tent, the golden sheen of her skin unbroken from head to foot. He sucked in a breath. Without thought, he stepped back into the shadows of the trees, averting his eyes.

Naked.

He heard the sounds of her rummaging in her stores and dropping something into a small bowl. Then he heard the sounds of water trickling into the bowl.

He froze where he stood, wanting to leave but conscious that if he could hear her filling a bowl, she could hear him moving away. He swore silently. Why hadn’t he turned straight back? The sound of her wringing water out of a sponge got his complete attention. Her footsteps took her past the tent and off into the edge of the trees where he’d first seen her.

Rob fought with his conscience. He would only need to move inches to breach the gap between them with trees, block her from his view and tiptoe off. Staying made him little better than a voyeur. It would be the second time he’d spied on her in less than twenty-four hours.

Instead, he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of her bathing. His values may have been all messed up but there was nothing wrong with his imagination and the bikini she’d been getting around in all day really left little mystery. As the sounds of tinkling water reached him, he pictured her naked and natural in the moonlight, her back to him, sponging herself with suds from the bowl. Her touch was light and all business wherever the sponge travelled, almost a matter-of-fact chore. So matter-of-fact it shouldn’t have been particularly sexy, but Rob swallowed back an instinctive groan. A freshwater bath had to be a rare luxury in a saltwater environment and she would be as careful conserving the precious supplies as she was gentle with her salt-abused skin. Almost ritualistic. She stood, mostly obscured, her shoulders and head visible above the circle of low-growing pandanas bushes between them. Her hands lifted back into view as they drifted to the scars. She slowed and stroked the area with more care, almost lovingly. Then she paused for a moment with one hand resting on the puckered flesh, her head bowed.

Rob stopped breathing. He grew entranced by the way her gentle strokes over the scars resumed. The way she practically worshipped them. It was more intensely personal than any naked part of her body could possibly be. A dull thud started up right through his body.

Right about then he realised his eyes weren’t closed any more, and he wasn’t imagining. Spying on a naked woman came a paltry second to the intrusion he realised he’d made into her inner privacy. Whatever was going on in her heart and head right now, it had less than nothing to do with him. It was for Honor alone.

This ends. Now.

He stepped back out of view. The lateness of the hour and his thickened senses slowed him as he tucked back into the shadows. Before he was more than a few metres down towards the beach, Honor emerged on the little shell-lined path and stood, pale and enormous-eyed, clutching a towel in front of her and violent accusation clear in her voice.

‘Enjoy the show?’

He had a choice—deny it like a coward, or cop to it like a man. Honor knew which she hoped he’d be, even though that also meant he was a jerk.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said simply, holding his hands where she could see them, as though she was a wild creature he didn’t want to rile any further. She refused to acknowledge the sheen of seawater on his skin, the droplets in his hair and thick eyelashes, keeping her eyes planted on his unapologetic face. To his credit, his eyes never strayed from hers, even though she stood near naked before him. ‘I didn’t mean to spy on you.’

‘Yes, you did.’ She was still angry but it was moderated by a swill of hormones that had started running laps in her system. ‘Unless you’re trying to tell me you tripped and fell into the bushes next to where I happened to be taking a bath.’

He acknowledged her point and changed his words. ‘Then I apologise for coming ashore. I didn’t expect you to be bathing, obviously.’

She blushed furiously. ‘You should have been asleep!’

‘So should you.’

Honor barely knew what to do with his entire lack of concern that he’d been busted being a slime-ball. It wasn’t that he wasn’t sorry—he clearly was—but he didn’t seem the slightest bit embarrassed. Her anger wasn’t because he’d seen her naked—lots of people had seen her body and not all of them were doctors—it was because he’d breached her just-won trust. ‘How am I going to trust you now? You spied on me.’

His head dipped. When it came back up, his eyes were sincere. He moved towards her but stopped immediately as she stumbled back a step. ‘You bathing was as much a natural part of this island’s life as watching the birds roosting.’

‘Easy for you to say. It wasn’t your butt hanging out for all the world to see.’

Some part of him must have known that smiling now would be fatal. He fought the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

She hugged the towel closer and glared. ‘Out of my camp.’

He turned on the Dalton charm, head tipping, sinking onto one hip, his voice like melted chocolate. ‘Come on, Honor. It was a mistake and I’ve apologised.’

‘Does that dreamy tone work on everyone? Or is it only effective with women?’

He looked at her hard and she had the feeling she’d hurt him. Too bad.

‘Mostly, yes,’ he murmured.

‘Oh, the ego—’

‘Can’t we chalk it up to a normal male reaction to a beautiful naked woman?’

There was the word again, twice in as many minutes. Beautiful. ‘Flattering me is not going to win you any points. I know how I look now. I also know the scars are not me, they haven’t changed me.’ She jabbed her fingers to the towel clutched at her breast. Saying it was as much for herself as for him.

‘They haven’t changed the rest of you either.’

She gasped and pointed back out to sea. ‘Get off my island!’

He laughed. ‘Take it easy, Honor.’

‘You’re trying to tell me the scars don’t bother you?’ she challenged him angrily.

He paused then, looking down at her. When had he moved that close? ‘Honestly? Yes, they do, but not for the reason you imagine. I’m not a complete jerk, regardless of what you think. They bother me because they must have caused you such pain. They bother me because I know they have something to do with why you’re here. They bother me because they bother you.’

‘They do not bother me.’ Honor raised her voice. She’d spent the better part of four years learning to love her scars. ‘They belong to me. And they belong to—’ Her head jerked back, appalled at what she’d been about to say. Her chest heaved beneath the towel.

Not for him.

Not for anyone.

She was starting to become critically aware that he was fully dressed and she … wasn’t. She turned and marched back to the campsite, only realising at the last second that her bottom was swinging in the breeze again. She heard the crunching of his feet as he followed her into camp. Strangely, that didn’t bother her. Somewhere deep down she knew he wasn’t going to hurt her. Not physically.

‘You and I are going to keep our distance. Until your boat is repaired—’

He hissed his impatience. ‘That’s not going to be necessary, Honor. I’ve seen you without your clothes on—big deal. I virtually saw as much on the beach this afternoon—your bikini doesn’t leave much to the imagination— and I’ve managed not to drag you off into the dunes, haven’t I?’

She glared at him.

‘Oh, fine!’ He reached down and un-snapped his board shorts. Honor spun away as he dropped them.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘I’m evening up the score,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen you, so you can see me. I don’t care.’

‘I don’t want to see you!’ Liar, liar … This was ridiculous. She was not going to turn around. ‘What are we—twelve?’

‘Okay—’ his voice was muffled as he pulled his T-shirt over his head ‘—I’m naked. Take a look. Go ahead.’

She struggled not to scream. The man had a cast iron ego. Exasperation made her boil. ‘Put your clothes on, Rob.’ She listened for the sound of him restoring his clothes and, not hearing any, turned her head a quarter back towards his silence, her eyes still averted.

‘What?’

‘You called me Rob.’ His voice was rich with smile. ‘So what?’

‘My friends call me Rob.’

‘Will you put your clothes back on, please?’

‘I will if you will.’

‘Fine. Watch out for the sand-ticks; they’re a nightmare to get out of your skin folds.’ She twisted the towel huffily around behind her and ducked into her tent before closing it up with a none-too-subtle ziiiip. It was the island equivalent of a do not disturb sign.

It took long minutes after she heard Rob move away, but controlled breathing finally got Honor’s erratic heartbeat back down to a regular rate. But it would be a long time before sleep came in her cosy tent haven.

She should have been spitting mad. After what he’d done, no one would judge her for tossing his firm butt off this island. But there’d been something so credible about his explanation. Ludicrous that he’d come ashore at three a.m. but, who knew, maybe he was as much of a night owl as she was. He probably was only warming up at this time back on the mainland. And could she honestly say—hand on heart—that she wouldn’t have looked if it had been him sponging that body down in the moonlight?

Her imagination bubbled with what she hadn’t allowed herself to look at when he’d stripped down behind her. The worst of it was, no matter what she imagined, chances were the reality wasn’t too far off. Rob Dalton was young and fit and good looking and … God … so alive.

Honor frowned at the word her subconscious threw up. She guessed Rob was a man who squeezed every bit of juice out of life. He loved his shipwrecks, clearly loved his women and had such a striking sense of vitality and excitement about him even when he was relaxed—the sort of qualities she hadn’t experienced in years. Not since …

She frowned and tried to think about the last time she’d felt vital and realised she was going back a lot longer than four years. She hadn’t realised she missed it until tonight. Rob’s presence was a living reminder that comfortable and predictable was not all roses and perfume.

It meant she missed out on feelings like this. Like when she visualised Rob’s nipple-piercing and for one hot split second imagined closing her lips around it

God above. She shifted in her sleeping bag to disrupt the tingle of anticipation deep down inside. It had been a long time since she’d felt that too. Those feelings had dulled along with her enjoyment of life years ago. It was almost frightening to discover they’d been lying dormant all this time.

Waiting.

She flipped over angrily. She never let herself go there any more, back into those painful thoughts and memories. She was normally more cautious. It hurt too much.

It was easier to think about the man outside on the beach and his infuriating self-confidence and to speculate, secretly, what it might be like to press her mouth to his perfect smile and taste him. Just for a moment. To be held by those powerful arms, or lie beneath all that rock-hard strength. To feel all that life




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