by Ginna Gray
At first he ignored her, letting it all slide away like water off a duck's back, but after a while his nerves began to wear thin, as well, and he sniped back. By the time they stopped around six for a dinner break they were barely speaking. When Rhys curtly ordered her back to work immediately after they finished eating, it was too much.
"Forget it!" she shouted. She jutted out her chin and faced him with her hands on her hips, her feet braced wide in a belligerent stance. "I quit! I'm sick of that stupid hut and I'm sick of you."
"Fine. Suit yourself. I'm going to go finish the job. I don't have any intention of sleeping out on the beach in the rain."
"Fine! You just do that. Build a whole stinking town of grass huts, if it amuses you. I'm going to go watch for Virgil and the others." Meghan shot him one last pithy look and stomped down the beach.
"Good riddance," she muttered. She sniffed and swiped at her nose. Her chest was tight with resentment and feat, but deep down part of her wanted to run back and fell him she was sorry, even to help build his stupid hut, if for no other reason than to have his company.
Which was really weird, she decided crossly, since she'd spent the past eight years hoping and praying she'd never set eyes on the man again. If she had needed any proof of just how desperate isolation could make a person, this was it. Virgil just had to return today. He just had to.
Rhys worked unceasingly throughout the remaining hours of daylight. Even as faraway as Meghan was, she could not help but notice the play of muscles in his back and arms as he drove poles into the sand with a rock or lashed bundles of palm leaves together. His upper body had a deep bronze hue and gleamed with a sheen of sweat, delineating every bulge and straining sinew with breathtaking clarity. Rhys moved with an economy of motion and languid grace that was a pleasure to the eye. Though Meghan berated herself for staring and tried her best to ignore him, time and again her gaze strayed in his direction.
She had to admit, Rhys had surprised her. When he had first proposed putting up a shelter, she had thought he meant to throw together a flimsy lean-to, but the bamboo-and-palm-leaf hut appeared sturdy and well put together.
Rhys was Savile Row suits, champagne and caviar, the quintessential GQ man—or at least that was his image. Regardless of his six-foot-two muscular build and his love of baseball, Meghan had never really thought of him as the physical type. Certainly she would never have guessed that he possessed the skill and know-how to build anything like that sturdy hut, especially under such primitive conditions.
Meghan sighed. All of which, she supposed, just proved that you couldn't really judge a person by appearances.
Not at all comfortable with the observation, she frowned and returned her attention to the watery horizon.
While Rhys worked, Meghan kept watch. At times she walked the beach and other times she sat in the shade beneath the trees, but her gaze constantly scanned the sea. With every passing hour, her stomach knotted tighter.
Sunset came in a blaze of glory, thanks largely to the storm clouds bearing down on them. The roiling thunder-heads, towering thousands of feet into the air, were a livid green and purple, tinged here and there with touches of red and lavender and lined in silver. Beyond, the sky was crimson, mauve and deepest gold. The colorful display splashed the ocean with the same vivid hues until it seemed that the universe had caught fire. Sitting huddled with her arms wrapped tightly around her updrawn legs, Meghan stared at the flamboyant scene with awe and fear.
At the height of the spectacle, Rhys strolled out onto the beach. "The hut is finished," he announced. He stood over her with his fingertips hooked in his back pockets, palms out, and studied the sky. When she did not reply, he added, "The storm will break soon."
"Maybe, maybe not," she answered with an elaborately casual shrug, but she knew he was right. An eerie stillness had settled over the island and the air had a coppery taste.
"Why don't you come on back to the hut with me? You're going to get soaked out here."
"No I won't. They'll be here any minute."
"Meghan-"
"They will!" she insisted. They had to be.
Meghan heard a sigh, but to his credit Rhys did not argue. "Fine. If you need me, you know where I'll be."
Hugging her knees tighter, Meghan stared out at the crimson-tinted waters. She knew she was being stubborn, unreasonable even, but she could not seem to help it. She was so frightened, she either had to focus her entire being on getting off the island or she would come unspooled. Just disintegrate into a hysterical, wailing, blubbering blob.
Minutes later, after an eerie period of stillness, the wind freshened. The palms began to sway like drunken dancers, their leaves slapping and fluttering in a frenzy of motion. The vivid colors of the sky faded, then were blotted out altogether as the dark clouds swooped down on the island. Meghan bit her lower Up and squinted at the darkening waters. Come on, Virgil. Come on. Hurry. What's taking you so long?
A giant bolt of lightening arced overhead. At the same instant, thunder boomed loud enough to shake the ground. Meghan jumped and shrieked. Before she could scramble to her feet the sky opened up.
The deluge hit her like water pouring from a bucket. Gasping and shivering, she lowered her head and bolted for the hut.
* * *
The clap of thunder gave Rhys a start. He looked up from securing the small pine-knot torch in the middle of the sand floor of the hut as rain began to splatter onto the broad palm leaves of the roof. He leaned to one side, looked out the doorway and spotted the shadowy figure scampering toward him. Smiling to himself, he sat down, leaned back on his braced arms and began to count under his breath.
He did not have to wait long. On the count of three Meghan burst through the low doorway and skidded to a halt, out of breath and soaked to the skin.
She stood there panting and shivering, drenched, bedraggled and dripping. Long tendrils of wet hair clung to her face and neck like seaweed and her silky dress plastered her body. She blinked at him, her blue eyes wide with fright and confusion. Spiked with rainwater, those ridiculously long lashes made him think of a startled doe.
She looked defenseless and pathetic. Petrified. And so adorable and sexy, Rhys was instantly aroused.
He wanted to sweep her up in his arms and comfort her. He wanted to protect and cherish her. He wanted to peel those wet clothes from her and kiss every creamy inch of her delectable little body, then lay her down on the soft sand and make love to her through the night.
He wanted to sate her senses until the thunder and lightning receded to nothingness, until she forgot where they were and how they had gotten there, until nothing existed for her but him.
Rhys knew, though, that any such move on his part would not be welcomed, might even increase her panic. As it was, her chin was already quivering. She was perilously close to breaking down, and it was imperative that he prevent that from happening. If she gave in to tears Rhys knew that he would not be able to keep his distance.
Clenching his fingers in the sand, he exerted a tight rein on his passions and resorted to subtle teasing.
"So. You decided to join me after all, I see."
"It's raining," she said unnecessarily, in a shaky voice.
"No kidding. My, my, what a surprise."
The jibe worked. Meghan swallowed a sniff and jutted her chin, her eyes narrowing. "All right. So you were right about the storm. You don't have to be so smug about it. That doesn't mean you're right about everything."
"Ah, I see. Then your buddy Virgil has returned, has he?"
Meghan gave him a look of pure dislike. "You know perfectly well he hasn't. But he will. I'll admit maybe I was a bit too optimistic about that. As you said, these things take time. But he'll come for us soon. Or at least someone will. Probably tomorrow. And what's more, you know perfectly well that vile man is no friend of mine.''
Shooting him a defiant look, she tipped her head to one side, gathered the thick fall of hair in both hands and wrung out the water.<
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Without thinking, Rhys allowed his gaze to wander downward over her wet dress. It was a mistake.
Soaked, the garment was semitransparent. Though she wore a dip of the same teal color beneath it, the wisp of silk and lace concealed about as well as gossamer. Both layers of silk molded every sweet dip and curve of her body. Her small, perfect little breasts thrust out impudently beneath the wet fabric, the tips puckered and hardened into tight nubs by the chill rain.
Rhys cursed the fire in his loins, even as his gaze strayed lower. There, to his sorrow and delight, he noted the shadowy indentation that marked her navel and the way the clinging cloth outlined the slightly mounded triangle at die juncture of her thighs. The delectable sight nearly sent him over the edge.
"What are you staring at?" Meghan demanded.
Slowly Rhys looked up, and his gaze locked with hers. He was past concealment or evasion, and his voice came out in a deep rasp, earthy and raw with masculine arousal. "You."
In the flickering light of the torch he saw the slight widening of her eyes, the flutter of the pulse at the base of her throat, and his nostrils flared.
His body tightened and he experienced a rush of exhilaration and sexual energy as primitive instincts, bred in the bone more than a millennium ago, surfaced. For that moment in time the primal male within him gained ascendance, responding to the skittish female, catching the scent.
Meghan shivered harder and stared at him, her eyes huge, her breathing shallow. Thunder rolled across the heavens.
Rain drummed on the palm leaves overhead with a deafening roar. The sides of the hut quivered under the assault. The smell of rain and wet vegetation hung heavy in the air.
Neither of them moved.
"W-why?" she managed to stammer at last.
Rhys gave her an ironic look from beneath heavy eyelids and one corner of his mouth twitched. "I think you know."
His voice was pitched so low it was barely audible over the rain, but he knew by the infinitesimal widening of her eyes that she had heard him. Her breathing grew agitated and her breasts rose and fell rapidly. Rhys's eyes narrowed and the savage drumbeat coursing through his veins pounded harder.
He clenched his teeth and dug his fingers deeper into the sand.
Meghan lifted her chin. "Well, just stop it," she said in a shaky but pugnacious voice.
"Why?"
"Because I don't like it."
Rhys watched her in silence. Sensual awareness pulsed in the little hut like a living entity. He knew she was deliberately whipping up anger to combat the lush feelings.
The ancient, untamed part of Rhys urged him to pursue, to use the sexual thrall and press the advantage that was plainly his, while reason and his conscience pulled him in the other direction.
It was a close call, but in the end the rational man prevailed, and he decided finally that it was probably wise to back off. For now.
"You're shivering," he said. "You'd better get out of those wet clothes."
"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Forget it. If you think I'm going to strip for your benefit, you're—"
"Take it easy. I only meant that you should change into something dry."
"Oh, really? Like what? You know perfectly well these are the only clothes I have."
In a lithe movement, Rhys rolled to his feet and unzipped the garment bag, which he had hung from one of the roof rafters. "Here, wear this," he said, pulling out the white terry-cloth robe.
Meghan's eyes lit up and her sour expression vanished. "Oh, thank you. Fd forgotten you had this." She eagerly accepted the garment, but then she stood clutching it in both hands and looked at Rhys expectantly. " Well?"
"Well, what? Aren't you going to change?"
She shot him an indignant glare. "I'm waiting for you to go outside."
"In this weather? Uh-uh. Forget it, sweetheart. I'm not getting soaked, not to mention struck by lightning, just to satisfy your misplaced modesty." As though to emphasize his point, a flashing display lit up the sky and the crack of thunder that followed startled a scream out of Meghan.
She quickly pulled herself together and narrowed her eyes at Rhys. He folded his arms over his bare chest and waited. She looked so damned cute and sexy, all irate and puffed up like a wet, little bantam hen, he had to clamp his hands tight against his sides to stop himself from grabbing her.
"I thought you were a gentleman?' she charged.
"I am. But I'm not a fool. Besides, I doubt that you've changed all that much in the last eight years, so what's the big deal?"
Meghan made a strangled sound and her eyes narrowed even more. She was practically vibrating with outrage. Rhys wouldn't have been surprised to see steam come out of her ears. Ah, sweetheart, if you only knew how much you're turning me on, you'd run for the hills—storm or no storm.
Rhys knew he shouldn't bait her, but he was discovering that doing battle with Meghan was so much fun he couldn't resist.
For most of his life, females had fawned over him. By the time he turned sixteen and had finally grown into his lanky frame, his voice had dropped an octave and his beard had sprouted. High-school girls, even a few bold older women had begun treating him as if he were Elvis reincarnate. The same thing had continued throughout his hitch in the marines and all during college. Meghan herself had trailed after him like a lovesick pup that final year. When his career had taken off the fawning and blatant sexual overtures had merely gotten worse. Wherever he went, women threw themselves at him. Though it was frustrating as hell, it was also oddly refreshing to find one who turned up her Utile nose at him.
Rhys studied her sparkling eyes and pugnacious posture and had to bite the insides of his cheeks to keep from smiling. He found Meghan's temper fascinating.
Of course, she was also the most maddening female he'd ever encountered. The attraction between them was strong, and he knew damned well it was mutual. If it weren't for her pigheaded obstinacy in clinging to whatever imagined injury he was supposed to have dealt her all those years ago, they would have been lovers by now.
"I hate you, Rhys Morgan," she hissed.
"No, you don't. But we'll work that out later."
Meghan almost exploded. Her eyes widened, then narrowed again in a look that should have vaporized him on the spot. Her nostrils flared and her mouth pinched so tight a white line formed around her lips. "In a pig's eye! And you've just proven me right. No gentleman would keep reminding a lady of... of... an indiscretion that she regrets. Furthermore, if you had so much as an ounce of common decency in you, you would at least turn around."
"Oh, all right. If it'll make you feel better." Exhaling a long-suffering sigh, Rhys presented her with his back.
He listened to her hurried movements and the heavy rasp of her breathing, the occasional slap of wet clothing against skin and the little anxious gasps and grunts she was unconsciously making. She didn't trust him one whit. He knew she was terrified he would cheat and cop a peek before she got the robe on. Hands hooked on his hips, Rhys rocked back and forth on the ball of his feet and smiled at the palm-leaf wall in front of his face.
"Okay. I'm done. You can turn around now."
Rhys did... and almost burst out laughing.
The ankle-length terry robe had been tailor-made for him. On Meghan, it dragged the ground a foot all around, and the end of the sleeves flapped far below her fingertips. The shoulder seams drooped around her elbows, and as a result the gaping vee neckline kept sliding off one shoulder or the other, revealing a tantalizing expanse of white skin and the rounded tops of her breasts. Clutching the lapels together with one hand, she was struggling to roll up the sleeves with the other and at the same time prevent the tie sash from slipping.
Catching sight of Rhys's grin, she scowled and snapped, "It's not funny."
"That depends on where you're standing," he said with an unrepentant chuckle and brushed her hand aside. "Here, let me help you with that."
Deftly, Rhys rolled the sleeves up to her wrists, then tied
the sash in a more secure knot. "There's not much we can do about the length, except maybe pull it up and let it blouse out over the belt.''
"I tried that," Meghan said stiffly. "It just makes the neckline gape more." Her gaze darted around—over his shoulder, out the door, down at her hands, at the bamboo rafter overhead—anywhere but at his naked chest.
Taking his time about it, Rhys unnecessarily straightened the wide lapels, a faint smile tugging at his mouth as he noted the erratic pulse at the base of her neck, the slight quiver of her nostrils as she drew in his scent.
When he was done, he made no move to step away. Neither did Meghan. Her lips parted slightly and her gaze settled on his collarbone. He felt a faint tremor quake through her. Rhys smiled and slowly slid his fingers upward beneath the edges of the lapels, letting his knuckles graze the slopes of her breasts through the terry cloth, before finally grasping a wet ringlet that hung over her shoulder. Fingering the bright lock, he tipped her chin up with one finger, and when her heavy eyelids lifted he looked into her slightly out-of-focus eyes. Smiling tenderly, he touched her cheek and murmured, "Let's go to bed, sweetheart."