by Ginna Gray
"You do, and I'll knock it down," he replied pleasantly.
"Knock— You wouldn't dare!"
"Watch me." Rhys polished off the last of his mango, downed the remaining coffee in his shell and in one fluid motion rolled to his feet. He dusted off the seat of the cutoffs she had made from his jeans and looked down at her, his expression pleasant but implacable.
"You might as well face it, Meghan. I'm a man and you're a woman, and we're alone on this island, just the two of us. Maybe for years. Maybe for the rest of our lives. We will become lovers."
Meghan inhaled sharply. "If you dare try to force me—"
"I have no intention of forcing you."
"Then it won't happen. So you might as well help me build another hut."
Rhys gave her a look that was part pity and part amusement. Frustrated beyond words, Meghan glared back at him, but he simply stood there in his skimpy cutoffs, bare chested and barefoot, looking completely at ease and impossibly virile and self-assured.
Sand coated the dark hair on his legs and his skin was toasted several shades deeper bronze than when they had arrived. His beautifully styled hair was beginning to look shaggy, the thick locks curling over his ear and the back of his neck. It and that damnable pirate's beard shone like polished ebony in the sunlight and his-silver eyes glittered with masculine triumph. The urbane sophisticate had vanished and the savage had emerged. He looked wild and wicked... and so handsome it took her breath away. Meghan wanted to kick him.
Rhys grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger and looked into her eyes. "It's going to happen, Slugger," he said softly. "You can count on it. Call it fate. Call it destiny. Call it any damned thing you want. We were meant to be together, you and I. Eight years ago we had a chance and messed it up, but this time we're going to get it right. So you may as well stop fighting it."
"Now, then," he said, releasing her. "Just in case Virgil and his buddies should happen to return, I'm going to work some more on the traps I'm setting for them. You can either give me a hand or sit here and stew. It's up to you."
He turned and walked away across the sand.
"Oh!" Meghan slammed the coconut shell down and shot to her feet. She stomped after him with blood in her eye, her bare feet churning up the sand. Her wild mane of curls bounced against her shoulders and back, the fiery red strands shooting off sparks in the sunshine. She caught up with Rhys and marched along at his side, crackling with ire.
"You listen to me, Rhys Morgan. I will not sleep with you and that's final! This so-called attraction you feel for me is nothing more than propinquity, and that's just not good enough!"
"Propinquity?" He cocked his eyebrows at her.
"That's right. It has to do with proximity. Convenience. Availability. The only reason you want me is because I'm the only woman on the island."
Rhys slammed to a stop and swung around. Before she realized his intent, he grasped her upper arms and jerked her against his chest—so hard her breath left her with a whoosh. His eyes blazed down at her from a face taut with rage. Meghan could only stare back, speechless.
"Let's get this straight right now," he growled. "I want you because you turn me on like no other woman in the world. You got that? I wanted you from the moment I set eyes on you in Dallas and that feeling has only grown stronger since then. Even if we had never ended up on this island we would have become lovers. Maybe not as quickly, but it would have happened."
"N-no—"
"Yes," Rhys insisted. "Whatever it took, however long it took, I would have pursued you until you surrendered."
With every word he spoke, Meghan's eyes grew steadily wider. "No. I don't believe you. Why would you—"
"Dammit, woman! Haven't you figured out yet that I'm crazy about you?"
Meghan sucked in her breath. Her heart seemed to do a loop-the-loop in her chest. "N-no. You can't be."
Rhys's grip on her arms tightened and a muscle in his jaw jumped. He looked angry enough to commit mayhem, but when he spoke his voice came out low and silky. "Is that right? Then how do you explain this?"
With stunning swiftness, his head swooped and his mouth covered hers. Meghan gasped, but before she could resist he pulled her tight against him and wrapped his arms around her, binding her in his embrace.
The kiss gave no quarter. It overpowered. It conquered. It demanded surrender. His lips rocked over hers, rapacious and ravenous, setting off an explosion of raw passion that burst instantly into a blazing inferno. Along every point of contact—lips, breasts, belly, thighs—Meghan felt scorched. The searing heat seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the air; she could barely breathe and her head swam. She felt as though she were melting, her body going soft and pliable, conforming to his hard contours like warm wax. All she could do was moan and cling to him.
The pleasure was incredible. It rushed through her like a raging river, sweeping away inhibition and doubts, filling her with a tingling rush of feelings. Her heart thundered and her blood sang. She pressed closer, greedily taking all he gave, hungry for more. Her breasts felt heavy and her nipples hardened into tight nubs against his chest. Deep in her feminine core, she throbbed and burned. It was agony. Sweet, glorious agony.
As quickly as it began, the kiss ended. Rhys took hold of her shoulders and held her away from him. Meghan gasped and grabbed his forearms when her rubbery knees threatened to buckle. Too dazed to move, to think, she could only cling to him, her bewildered gaze caught and held by the intense silver eyes that bore into her.
"That's what you do to me. And, lady, it doesn't have one damned thing to do with propinquity.''
He released her so abruptly Meghan staggered and nearly fell. Eyes wide, her heart knocking against her ribs like a wild thing, she watched him stalk away down the beach. She raised her hand and pressed four trembling fingers to her lips. Could it be... ? Was it possible... ?
"No. Don't be ridiculous." Meghan looked away from Rhys's striding form and took several deep breaths. "You're the only woman available to him right now, that's all. Of course you're going to look good to him. But it means nothing."
As if drawn by a magnet, her eyes sought Rhys again. Still.. .surely no man could kiss a woman like that unless he felt something for her.
* * *
From his vantage point in the pine tree, Rhys saw Meghan pick up the jug and head his way. He finished tying the vine rope to the trunk and tested it, then paused to watch her. She was going to the falls for drinking water and would pass directly below the tree where he was setting his latest trap. He would have to warn her about it, but for now he just enjoyed the view.
His mouth twitched as he studied her undulating walk. He knew she thought that teal slip was suitably modest to wear as a sundress. He had assured her of that himself when she had asked his opinion. Actually, it was opaque and the cut was not overly daring. However, she had no idea how deliciously that delicate silk clung to her well-toned little body, or how the shiny surface of the material revealed enticing curves and highlighted each graceful flex of feminine muscles and soft flesh. Nor was he going to point it out to her.
In the interest of preserving what little clothing they had, Meghan had put every article to good use. Personally, Rhys wouldn't have objected to going around in the buff, but Meghan had been outraged when he'd made the suggestion.
He had to admire her ingenuity, though. The teal bra and panties that matched her slip she used as swim wear. Both of his tuxedo shirts had become sleeveless minishifts, and underneath them she wore bikini underwear, which she had made from the ripped-out sleeves. The terry robe and the two tux jackets she was holding in reserve, but she had removed the linings from both jackets and turned them into a sundress. She had also cut the legs off his jeans and the two pairs of tux trousers, to make him three pairs of shorts. By piecing together the leg material, Meghan had sewn shorts and halter tops for herself as well—delightfully skimpy, formfitting little things that drove him crazy, and which he took every opportunity to ogl
e.
Actually, watching Meghan had become his favorite pastime ... and his most effective weapon in his campaign to wear her down. It had been ten days since she had accepted that they were stranded on the island. Nine days since she had come to him with that ridiculous demand that he build her a hut of her own. That had been the day that he had begun his subtle but relentless seduction. And it seemed to be working.
Grinning, he recalled the confusion in her eyes whenever he stared at her. Which he did at every opportunity. She got all flustered and red in the face and that little pulse at the base of her throat fluttered wildly. Only the previous night he had "accidentally" rubbed up against her while they were cooking around the fire and she had nearly jumped out of her skin.
Rhys's grin became a chuckle. Oh, yes, he was getting to her, all right. She was as aware of him as he was of her. Whether she knew it or not, it was only a matter of time before they did something about it.
Once he understood what was behind her skittish attitude, Rhys had realized that it would take patience and cunning, maybe even downright underhandedness, to win her over.
Not that he blamed her for being wary of him, after what had happened between them the previous time. He still felt bad that Meghan had been hurt, but he intended to start making it up to her just as soon as she would let him.
Through the trees he saw her coming up the path. He waited until she was almost below him, then he swung out on the limb and dropped to the ground right in front of her. "Hi."
"Oh! Rhys, you scared me!" She stopped and put her hand over her heart. "Don't ever do that again." "Sorry."
"What were you doing up there, anyway?" she asked, craning her head back to look up into the tall pine tree.
"Tying the trap in place. All I have to do now is lay out this end, set the trigger and throw a few leaves and pine needles over it." He squatted down and arranged the looped end of the rope in the center of the path. Moments later, covered with debris, it was barely visible. Standing, Rhys pulled out his pocket knife and blazed the trunk of the pine tree. "Be sure and watch for this mark, like you do the others, and step around this spot. Otherwise, you'll find yourself dangling upside down, ten feet in the air." "I will."
SUpping his knife back in his pocket, Rhys turned and ran his gaze over her, deliberately dropping his eyelids to half mast. He started at her fiery hair and slowly traveled downward, missing nothing. When done he reversed the path until be met her eyes. He saw her panic and excitement, and he smiled.
"Don't, Rhys," she begged in a shaken little voice.
"Don't what?" he whispered back. He eyed her lips wickedly and slowly licked his own.
"Don't look at me like that."
"How am I looking at you?"
"Like.. .like a gourmet looks at a morsel he's thinking of eating."
Rhys threw his head back and let loose with a rich chuckle. Meghan's eyes widened and she shivered at the sound, and he felt a rush of pleasure. Lord, she was so responsive.
Giving her a slumberous look, he lifted one hand and ran the backs of his knuckles down her cheek. "That's a very apt analogy. I want to savor the taste of you," he murmured. "Experience the texture of your skin, feast on every delicious inch of you.''
Meghan closed her eyes and moaned. "R-Rhys, you mustn't—"
He cupped her jaw and rubbed his thumb back and forth across her lips. From beneath heavy lids, his eyes followed the motion, and his breathing grew heavy. "Soon, very soon, I'm going to sate myself with you, sweet Meghan," he whispered.
Chapter Nine
Meghan's fingers trembled as she wove the strips of palm leaves together into a mat. She was wound as tight as an eight-day clock.
Lord, she didn't know how much longer she could stand this tension. It was there all the time, pulsing in the air between her and Rhys, a deep throbbing like the low register of a bass guitar.
If only Rhys would let up. Meghan sighed and added another palm strip to the diagonal weave, threading it in with the others. She might as well wish for the moon. Whenever he was around, those silvery eyes followed her everywhere.
He watched her when she worked around the camp, when she jogged along the beach, when she gathered fruit and wild vegetables in the forest. Sometimes she suspected he watched her when she slept.
Only that morning she had been wading ashore after a swim, when she experienced that familiar prickly sensation. She had looked up and there he was, leaning indolently against a palm, staring at her. As always his gaze was slumberous and hot—so hot her skin had felt singed. He reminded her of a hungry wolf, sizing up his next meal.
Sharing the hut with him was torture. Night after night, lying there in the darkness, aware with every fiber in her being that he was a mere three feet away, was driving her right around the bend. Though she pretended sleep, she always lay awake for hours, her body taut, her skin all prickly and hot.
They had been on the island almost four weeks now, and with every passing day the sexual tension between them grew stronger. They never spoke of it, but Meghan knew neither of them could forget that they had once been intimate. It was there, smoldering in Rhys's eyes whenever he looked at her, and the memory hovered constantly in the back of her mind as well. Somehow that added to the simmering awareness.
Meghan had to give Rhys credit, though. He had made no move to force her into an intimate relationship. There had been no more kisses, no suggestive remarks. Unless you counted those sizzling looks and the sexy tenor of his voice when he spoke to her, he hadn't even tried to seduce her. But then, neither did he make any effort to hide his desire for her. There was an intensity about Rhys now, an earthy sensuality, that left no doubt of what he wanted.
It was unsettling. Merely being within sight of him made Meghan's nerves jump and hum. So far, she had ignored his hot looks, but it was getting more difficult by the day.
Meghan sighed. In all honesty, no matter how much she would like to, she couldn't assign all the blame to Rhys. Sadly, she was every bit as aware of him as he was of her. In the past she had always thought him to be handsome, but now... now there was a savage beauty about him that took her breath away.
There were times when she caught sight of Rhys unexpectedly and all she could do was stare. Like the other day when she'd looked up from sewing and spotted him wading through the shallows with his spear in search of fish for their dinner.
Practically naked in his skimpy shorts, with his shaggy beard and hair ruffling in the breeze, his body glistening with sweat and droplets of sea water, he had looked like a pagan god. Every long, sleek line of his body was poetry. Just watching him as he moved with stealth and masculine grace had made her mouth go dry.
It was not just the physical attraction. That she might have been able to withstand if Rhys hadn't been so darned nice. Blessed hell. Why did he have to be so easy to get along with? He flatly refused to let her do any of the heavy work and he was thoughtful in numerous ways and unfailingly protective and solicitous of her comfort and well-being.
Meghan's cheeks reddened when she recalled the night, during their second week on the island, when she'd begun her period. She had woken in the early morning hours with severe cramps, and though she'd tried, she had not been able hold in the moans of pain as she'd writhed on her pallet. The sounds had roused Rhys and he had been instantly by her side, his face creased with worry in the moonlight filtering through the door of the hut.
"What is it? What's wrong, Meghan? Are you ill?"
"Go... away," she'd gasped, mortified.
"Don't be silly. You're in pain. Where do you hurt?"
Gritting her teeth, she closed her eyes and pushed her face down against the prickly pine needles. "Oh, please... just... leave me... alone," she wailed, but the words were muffled against her clenched fist.
"C'mon, honey. Don't be that way. How can I help you, if you won't tell me whaf s wrong?"
She groaned and turned her back to him, curling into a tighter fetal position and pressing both hands
against her lower abdomen as another grinding cramp gripped her.
"Meghan? Talk to me." The beginning of panic edged Rhys's voice. He covered one of her hands with his. "Is that where you hurt? Oh, damn. Could it be your appendix?"
Meghan's next groan was part pain and part humiliation. The sound terrified Rhys, and he grabbed her shoulders and rolled her onto her back, forcing her to look at him. "Dammit, Meghan, talk to me! Whaf s wrong?"
"N-nothing's wrong."
"Don't give me that. You're obviously in agony. Now tell me, dammit!"
"Oh, all right! I-if you must know, it's c-cramps!" she wailed in a burst of acute frustration and embarrassment. As soon as the words were out she groaned again and covered her face with both hands.
"Cramps?" Rhys sat back on his heels. Through the space between her fingers, Meghan saw the chagrined look that flickered across his face. It was quickly replaced by a tender smile, and he stroked her tangled hair away from her face. "Shoot, honey, why didn't you just say so? Hold on. I've got something that should help."