by Anne Stuart
She hadn't realized he was watching her. She ran her hands through her short hair, rubbing the water into it, then pulled open the neck of her T-shirt to let the water stream underneath it. She was gloriously, unselfconsciously female, reveling in the water and the sun and the day, and all he could do was watch her.
In the end, it might have saved their lives. If he'd been where he wanted to be, with her under the pounding water, he never would have heard their approach. The two men who'd held him prisoner for so long were arguing, idiotically unaware they were signaling their arrival. Even if they thought he was nothing more than a wild beast they should have realized his natural defenses were well-honed.
He immediately dove under the water, swimming rapidly across the width of the lagoon to the waterfall. Without warning he surged up next to Libby, shocking a little squeak out of her before he covered her mouth with his hand, dragging her under the waterfall into the water-splashed darkness of the shallow cave.
She was struggling again, and he couldn't blame her, but he couldn't let her give away their presence. He had no choice but to restrain her, pushing her down on the rock ledge, imprisoning her body with his much larger one so she could barely struggle. She bit his hand, hard, but he didn't react, lying motionless on top of her as he listened for the voices that were dangerously close.
And then she heard the voices as well, and she stopped struggling, stopped trying to bite him, almost stopped breathing.
"What makes you think they came this way?" the little man's voice floated down to them. "We've been circling this area for hours now. If you ask me they're closer to the house. He was too drugged to make it very far."
"But I didn't ask you, now did I?" The bigger, meaner one said. "You still think he kidnapped the little darling, when I know she's had the hots for him the moment she laid eyes on him. Never trust a woman, I always say, and the quiet, smart ones are the worst. They always go the wildest when they break out."
"But she's not like that," Mick said plaintively. "She's just got a soft heart when it comes to creatures like him…"
"Not likely," the big one, Alf, snorted. "She's with him, all right, and it was her idea. And she's not going to be happy when we finally catch up with the two of them. Which we will, or my name isn't Alf Droggan."
"Er… actually your name is Orville Johnson, Alf. We've been mates since we were in school together, and you changed it after you'd been nicked for…"
"Shut up, Mick. That doesn't alter the fact that we'll find them, and soon."
"You still haven't told me what you're planning to do with them. Assuming we find them together, and that he hasn't hurt her. You don't think he would have hurt her, do you, Alf? After all, he broke your arm in three places."
"I know he broke my arm in three places, Mick." Alf's patience was clearly wearing thin. They must have stopped just above the waterfall, and he was having to shout to be heard. Loud enough that John and Libby could understand every word as they lay entwined in the darkness. "And no, I don't think he's hurt her. Not the way I'm going to hurt her when I catch up with them."
"You can't, Alf!" Mick protested.
"Watch me. Dr. Elizabeth Holden has just proven herself a major liability and a royal pain in the arse, and I don't think she's the type to take a payoff and be quiet, do you? She's one of those idealistic do-gooder types who'll go running off to the newspapers or some wildlife organization screaming bloody murder. And I can think of only one way to stop her."
"Bloody murder?" Mick said in a mournful voice.
"And who told you you weren't very bright?" Alf said cheerfully.
"You do, Alf. All the time."
"Never mind that, Mick. We've got to find the two of them. We've got to get rid of the lady, get Tarzan back in the lab before Hunnicutt finds out something's happened."
"But won't he wonder what happened to her?"
"He knows enough not to ask questions. I just wish I could say the same for you, Mick, me lad. He didn't question it when Dr. McDonough took his little tumble, now did he? He told me McDonough was a liability and he needed to be gotten rid of. I took care of it, no questions asked. That's why he hired the lady—he knew she had no one to come asking questions about her. By the time anyone realizes she's disappeared everything will be so covered up it would take an archaeologist to find out anything."
"But why would an archaeologist go looking?" Mick said plaintively. "Ow, that hurt!"
"Then stop asking stupid questions. And stop worrying about the bitch doctor. She betrayed us, and she'll get what's coming to her."
"I still wish we didn't have to hurt her," Mick said.
"You're too bleeding softhearted, you are. And it's getting late. I want to find them before sundown if I can."
"They can't get off the island, can they?"
"Not unless they want to be shark-bait. We're a hundred miles from any other land. They're sitting ducks. We'll find 'em, sooner or later."
"Just do me a favor, would you, Alf?" Mick's voice was plaintive.
"What now?"
"Don't hurt her. Kill her quickly, just a good clean snap of the neck. I don't want her to suffer."
"I can always let you do the honors, pally."
"No, thanks anyway," Mick said hastily. "You do it. I'll just watch. Which way are we headed?"
"We'll go east from here. Sooner or later we'll come across some sign of them."
"Right," said Mick cheerfully, his voice fading away. "But are you sure we have to…?"
John waited long, endless minutes, unmoving. He knew enough not to trust them—life was full of coincidences and conveniences but he never took them for granted. From the sound of it Mick and Alf had been carrying on that argument from the moment they left the house, and they would have overheard a good part of it any time they came close. But he still wasn't taking any chances.
Libby lay small and still beneath him in the darkness. She was trembling, random shivers running through her body, and he wished he could dare warm her, dare reassure her, even take his hand from her mouth. But he couldn't. He was living on adrenaline alone, and he wasn't about to risk exposing her to Alf's bloodthirsty anger. He was bigger and stronger than Alf, but the man almost certainly had a gun. And probably loaded with something a bit more lethal than tranquilizer darts.
At least the stupid fools hadn't managed to track them. John had been doing the best he could not to leave any trace. He could see his own trail plain as day, but Alf and Mick weren't as experienced. They were headed away from them, thank God. They just had to stay in the cave a little while longer, to make certain they were safe.
She was shaking harder now, trembling in his arms. Her clothes were sopping wet, chilling her despite the jungle heat, and even his body warmth wasn't helping. He raised his head, looking down into her panicked eyes. He moved his hand away from her mouth, ready to clamp it back if she made the slightest sound.
Her lips, her erotic, delicious lips were trembling with cold and fear, and she looked up at him as if she thought he could save her, as if he were the answer to every question in the universe. She looked up at him in silent, blind panic. And then she put her hands on his head and pulled his mouth down to hers.
Chapter Ten
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In the end, he didn't know how it happened, and he didn't particularly care. She was shaking so hard, with cold and with fear, that all he could think of was he had to warm her. She was clutching him with her small hands, kissing him with that luscious, sweet mouth of hers, and there was never any question of what he was going to do.
He pulled the soaking, stretched-out T-shirt over her head and tossed it to one side, unhooked the front clasp of her bra with a deft gesture. In the darkness he could barely see her, but it didn't matter. He could touch her, feel her, the small, tender breasts, nipples hard from cold rather than desire. He knew a moment's hesitation, his brain kicking in for one last protest, and then she reached down and shoved her khakis and underwear off, and she w
as naked beneath him in the shadowed cave, and it was far too late.
"Please," she said in a panicked voice as she kissed him, awkward, hurried kisses.
She was going to shake apart with cold and fear, and he was going to explode from smothered desire, and he abandoned the last remnants of his conscience, kicked out of his shorts and covered her.
He wanted to kiss her, but she wouldn't let him. She wasn't aroused, she was terrified, and he didn't want to take her that way, but there was no choice, between her panic and his simple lust. He slid between her legs and she clutched at him, pulling him into her, and he gave up fighting, gave over to the sheer, physical sensation of her body, sinking deep into its welcoming tightness.
He almost climaxed immediately, but he had enough self-control left to stop himself, to slow it down. Her shaking had stopped—now she seemed frozen beneath him, and he started to pull out, guilty.
"No!" she cried, clawing at him, pulling him back. "Finish it!" Her eyes were closed, and tears were streaming down her face, but she clamped her legs around him, trying to hurry him.
He tried to touch her face, but she shook his hand away. He didn't know what she needed, what she wanted, and in the end it didn't matter. They couldn't turn back now, and in truth, neither of them wanted to.
He caught her hips in his hands, pulling her up against him, and he began to move, deep, measured strokes, steady, as he tried to lure her from that nightmare of panic she'd retreated to. He took his time, letting it build, deeper, harder, until he felt her dampen around him, felt her breathing change and her heart quicken, felt the hot stirrings of real desire begin to wash through her.
And he fed it, teasing her, coaxing her with nothing more than the act of sex. She wouldn't let him touch her anywhere else, but he didn't need to. She was beginning to gasp, and her body was tightening around his, and he knew, unbelievably, that she was on the very edge of climaxing. He could feel the shivers of reaction dancing across her skin, feel the beginning quivers of her orgasm, and he pushed in deep, needing her, wanting to fill her completely, wanting to join her.
And then she stopped. Froze, the moment the first shiver of climax hit her, but it was too late for him. He went rigid, exploding inside her, groaning deep in his throat from pleasure and regret.
He sank down on her, the rock ledge sharp beneath his knees and elbows, as he tried to control his breathing. He didn't know what to say to her, and then, after a moment, he remembered that he didn't have to say anything at all. As far as she knew, he couldn't speak, couldn't understand a thing she said.
He was half-prepared when she shoved him off her—he'd been trying to keep his full weight from crushing her against the rock ledge—and he rolled away easily as she scrambled out from underneath him. He saw her naked body for a brief moment as it flashed by, and then she disappeared through the waterfall, into the cool depths of the lagoon, presumably to wash every trace of him off of her, out of her.
He sat up, slowly, and began cursing. Out loud—silent curses weren't nearly as satisfying. He'd spent most of his civilized life in Australia, and the Australians were expert at cursing. The raw, muttered syllables would have shocked a sailor, but he took scant pleasure in it.
How could he have been so stupid? There'd been other ways to calm her, other ways to warm her, but no, he had to go right for the gold, no matter how yappy and neurotic she was. No matter how vulnerable. He'd had sex with her before he'd ever held a conversation with her. He'd had hot, fast, dirty sex with her when she was the type who'd want a bed strewn with roses. He needed someone to give him a good swift kick in the ass.
On top of that, he hadn't used any protection. Funny thing, that. He didn't happen to carry condoms when he'd been held captive and was running for his life, and neither did she.
He washed off under the waterfall, discreetly out of sight, then pulled his shorts back on. Her wet clothes lay scattered on the narrow ledge, and he scooped them up, planning to carry them out into the sunlight to help them dry a bit. The skimpy little bra was on top, and when he realized he was absently stroking it, he dropped it on the ground, only to have the stream of the waterfall catch it and drag it away. He made no effort to retrieve it.
She was at the far end of the lagoon, swimming, and he knew she wouldn't turn to face him. She'd probably stay in the water until her body temperature dropped to a dangerous level, and he'd have to haul her out by force. Maybe even perform mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on her, and there was no question where that would lead.
The best he could do for her right now was ignore her. He spread her clothes across some of the bushes where the hot sun could get them, feeling something hard in one of the pockets. At first he thought it might have been an overlooked tranquilizer dart, but when he zipped open the tiny pocket he found a small but perfectly serviceable Swiss Army knife. Nice of her to mention it, he thought wryly, tucking it into his own pocket. Had she forgotten she had it, or did she think she might have to end up stabbing him? After this afternoon's debacle she might be sorely tempted to do just that.
She was swimming laps, a fool thing to do when she was already half-exhausted from their hike through the rain forest. He stood in the shadows, watching her pale body glide through the transparent water, and he tried to tell himself what he felt was regret. When he knew damned well what he was feeling was desire. He wanted her again, he wanted her on a bed, all night long, where he could take his time and make her come until she was ready to pass out from it. He wanted an absolute orgy with her pale, naked body—that brief, barely satisfactory coupling behind the waterfall had only turned his sexual appetite into a voracious monster. He'd been planning on getting rid of her as soon as they got off this place—he knew that was what she wanted, especially after today. She needed cities and civilization like a drunkard needed whiskey.
And he knew he wasn't going to be able to let her go. Not right away. Not with things unfinished between them.
He stretched out a ways from the lagoon, a spot where she could see him, know that he wasn't watching her. He needed to lull her into at least a truce. She probably hated him for this afternoon. He didn't blame her.
But he had every intention of changing her mind.
At least she'd stopped crying, Libby thought, pushing her body through the cool water with merciless determination. Nothing could stop her feelings of abject shame, the water couldn't even begin to cool the blush of embarrassment that swamped her body. What in God's name had come over her? She'd never done anything like that in her entire life. With a stranger. Someone who was closer to a wild animal than a man. In fact, she'd forced him, though he'd raised no objections. The memory of his hard, muscled flesh straining over her, the feel of him inside her, was still tormenting her, and all the water in the world wouldn't wash away that feeling.
She hadn't let him kiss her. She'd been afraid to, though she wasn't sure why. She'd needed sex—for the first time in her entire life she'd needed a man, and she'd taken the one who was available.
Of course, she was ignoring the fact that she'd been having fantasies about him since she first saw him. He wasn't a casual stranger she happened to jump. She'd been acutely, intensely aware of him and his body for days now. It wasn't general panic that had made her jump him, and there was no other word for it. It was specific, directed at him. He'd brought her out of that place, he'd protected her. And some deep, primitive part of her wanted that protection guaranteed. She wanted to be claimed, so that he wouldn't let her go easily.
All the silly little games women played, and she could see them in the harsh light of day, and feel like a fool. The sooner she got off this island, away from him, the better. Her fear of Alf and Mick was nothing compared to her fear of John. Her fear of what she was feeling.
She needed the city, the sidewalks, the cold chill of winter sinking into her bones. She wasn't made for wild adventures with wild creatures. She was made for safety and comfort and security. Wasn't she?
The flash of white cau
ght her eye, and she spun in the water, suddenly nervous, to see her clothes stretched out on the bushes, drying. He was nowhere to be seen—a small blessing. She'd have to face him sooner or later, but she was in no hurry. She'd be able to regain her equilibrium eventually. That feverish coupling beneath the waterfall had been a one-time aberration. She'd get over it. As for John, he'd clearly known what he was doing, which ruled out the possibility that he'd lived his entire life isolated from other people. At some point or another he'd been around women, and knew the primary difference. Either that, or sex was hardwired into his psyche.
She didn't want to think about it. She dove beneath the surface, skimming through the water like a dolphin, trying to outrun the memories. She didn't want to think about sex, or him, or her own uncharacteristic behavior. All she wanted to think about was getting the hell out of there.
Which wasn't going to happen as long as she lurked in the water, unable to face him. She knew exactly where he was—stretched out under a tree nearby. Far enough to give her a misleading sense of privacy, close enough if Mick and Alf came back this way. Though what he could do to stop them was beyond her comprehension. They'd have tranquilizer darts, and she knew from bitter experience just how effective they were. If they managed to sneak up on John they could knock him out before he even realized what was happening. And then she'd be alone, with no one to help.
Except that wasn't going to happen. No one would sneak up on John without him being aware of it, she knew that with irrational certainty. And he wouldn't let anything bad happen to her. Apart, of course, from what she'd brought on herself.
She swam to the far edge of the lagoon, taking hold of a root to pull herself out of the water. He paid no attention, lying perfectly still, and she moved toward her clothes with undignified haste.
The clothes were almost dry, a blessing. She pulled them on quickly, then noticed her bra had disappeared. She hunted the bushes and the trail leading from the waterfall, but there was no sign of it. With a muttered curse she pulled the T-shirt over her naked flesh. In fact it was more comfortable, but she didn't like the idea of wandering around the jungle without her bra.